The Storybook

The storybook sits by itself collecting dust upon a shelf. The cover turned from tan to brown but its touch has not lost renown. The pages still are new and white, so clean we must squint in their light. The storybook has but one creed: to be opened by us to read. Each generation hears its call through bedroom door, down moonlit hall. Bedtimes, naptimes, it is used to be by young readers perused. At times the tome is spirited away in secret to be read. And then should danger raise alarm. ‘tis hid and then kept safe from harm. To love to read each child is raised, and the book still leaves all amazed. Those children grow still young at heart with keeping the storybook a part. Now, I wander by myself to pull the volume from the shelf and read before I go to bed from within the book so fondly read.