Memory, A Poet, Opening An Antique Book

a candle
this library book
a bookmark that was already inside
About eight years ago, I wrote a poem mentioning a poet’s name and that one was placed in Moonflower. Late spring this year I wanted to read poetry again and couldn’t remember the last time I’d read any, so I began reading some online.
Just recently, I thought, I’d like to read a book by a single poet. I thought of a certain one first because I’d mentioned her name in my own, the only one I had mentioned a poet’s name, but couldn’t remember her work with some loss of memory that year and also surrounding it. I could envision her picture in my mind, wasn’t sure it was accurate, but decided not to look up anything about the author until I finished the book.
Collected Lyrics by Edna St. Vincent Millay was available at the library in the recent days although I had missed the time to pick it up with new unknown to me library hours. I did pick it up today.

When I was inside, my first glance at the actual copy my local library had on the desk, (it is a beautiful book), I felt in my chest, something, not a tug or pull, not cool or cold, not very warm either.
Yesterday, I had a conversation with a nurse and we shared meal recipes. When I was leaving, I asked her name and at the same time saw on the tag she was wearing, “Edna.” Funny, I didn’t think of the poet or book until I came back home last night. And then I took the bus to pick it up today, speaking with a philosophical driver there and back. 
I’ve read more than a few, not exactly several, am moving through them slowly, although the book gives me a feeling to read it eagerly and many ones at a time. I’d noticed a place where I thought to pause for later.

As I read the first poem, “Renascence,” tears came toward the middle of it almost steadily. I can’t remember the last time a poem moved me this way, if ever, and first reading the title, I thought renaissance, rebirth, awakening.
Even more, the next ones I read were familiar in essence, with thoughts of past and present on my mind in more recent days, but not the actual reading of the poet’s work eight years ago. I don’t know if I would’ve grasped them then the same. At the same time, they are new.

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