the book

so, heard about the book.

made a beeline to get it.

got the book in hand.

read it cover to cover.

full fledge information gathering,

comprehension into blossom.

mindfully aware of all that was said.

even privately comforted, 

just holding the book in passing.

but still,

that very inward private discovery.

there is a deeper longing,

an inner voice that speaks.

yes, quite privately responds to say,

all that knowledge is really head-bound.

realize that the all of ink is accessorizing

the facials of each page.

whatever the lip-service presented,

each page is as the formality of wardrobe

holding a place in the choir.

yet, there is a calling for you

that comes from the page,

from each and every page,

even as the collection of pages.

there is the message from the tree of its making.

the secrecy of livingness,

held as if postured for other purposes.

there is a drawnness within you,

to know of the tree,

of the wisdom of the timber

from the aliveness of then,

put forth into the steadfast of its now.

where wisdom is not the residence of knowledge

but the hows and whys of the material plane, 

sacred to have lived it.

imploring a deeper sense into your being.

depths and dimensions undeclared but relevant

to a soul like yours.

that you would come to converse

with the essence beyond knowledge's offerings,

that you would take up a cause-worthy-ness

from within your own depth of being.

and make conscious to yourself,

beyond the social-construction of self destiny. 

where is the where-within you come from?

from your hands on the lips of a forest,

unknowingly checking its pulp.

what that that heart is moved to a wisdom from within,

allows you that inner majestic afterglow of a smile,

when someone says in your presence.

"well, you just can't judge a book by its cover.'

and for you now,

no response is necessary . . .