In olden days, before TVs and phones,
when books were authored leisurely and long,
when letters were substantial, and the bones
of narrative were dressed with right and wrong
and mannerly philosophies, then calm
after a day of work and woe could be
obtained by reading. Holding in the palm
a tome, investing time was therapy.
A few of us have managed to retain
the neural pathways needed to peruse
and love a book of depth. And so I train
my eyes and ears away from current news:
I’m reading Middlemarch now, going slow,
reviewing life 200 years ago.