The Library

In the silence of the morning

Among shelves of well-used books,

I see the few snowflakes fall,

And the brown stalks swaying

With parched winter green.

Once, I had huddled

In musty stacks of unread theses

Over diagrams thick with the cycles

Of carbon and life.

Now, my pen scratches,

And I hear the leafing of pages

Against the tap tap of keyboards

And a well-modulated whisper

Heard above my breathing.