Books are turbulence in print.
They struggle to hold the reins
of stallion words
galloping about
the planet to be tamed.

They carry us through
wide expanses of the soul
to expose veins
of indigenous rock
sparkling with goodness.

They carry us down
twisting alleyways
of willfulness
that lead to terraces
of spiked emotion. 

They carry us across
harvest fields of the heart
where bursting sheaves of joy
lounge in tall stacks, golden,
still bound together.  

R. Hacken