To you, bookshop keeper, my appreciation
Who exchange your enduring volume—
Hard or paperback—
For my transient legal tender
Though for the making of books
As the Ecclesiast alludes
There is no end
Time I shall make by your door
And on wings of words
Escape into other worlds
To you, dealer in books, my gratitude
Not to me your gratefulness
Though thanks sound sweet to my ears
But to the printer down the road
Who mans his Hielderbecks
Splashing inks on sheets
Folding, collating, stitching
Or sewing to perfect-bind
And then trim to perfection
To the pressman your gratitude
To you, indefatigable printer
Who speak the language of the press
To string books for my reading bliss
Take my thanks for your
Dexterity with iron and inks
That pop out of your printers
Not to me your gratefulness
Even if I relish in the reason
But to the publisher down the road
Who, by his ingenuities,
Work with words and, behold,
Scatter nuke and cranny
That all may know and run
For words are blessings to humanity
And great is the company that makes them
Thank you publisher of books
My lifelong companion into which I escape
Those low moments when boredom calls
To which I turn to gain knowledge
For your wisdom in gathering lexis
Take my thanks, please, for your colleages
Not to me your indebtedness
Why, though I pour over the text
And ensure they tell what they contain
To cross the tees and dot the eyes
That words are not mixed up
To sound like noisy cymbals
I’m but a gatekeeper
That no word slips out of context
To the author, my dear reader
Your true gratitude
To you scripter, pen-wielder
Who out of your deepest emotions
Scribble for posterity soul-enriching words
Threading these twenty-six soldiers
To combat the mind of men
The heart of women
The purity of children
Who write with precision
Braving loneliness and mental block
Churning creativity from inward heart
To write that I may live
To you, author, my thanks
Why thank me, avid reader of books
These sheets upon which I scribble—
Even if I keyboard and do screen,
Upon the paper the words must print
Go, therefore, I implore you
To the paper-miller in his factory
And marvel at how out of sawdust
Trees and wood-free substances
He produces paper in many shades
To him your undivided appreciation
To you paper-miller
My dire gratitude
How strange your expertise
That you and the feller of trees
Team up to bring to my desk eventually
Paper with scribbles on them
Who? Me? Who am I?
That your gratitude should come
Did I water those trees in the forest?
And create marshes where papyrus grows
From when I pulp paper for the world?
Though modernity screens words
You know they are not the same
As good old paper texture
Not to me but to the One who
By His creative might gives birth
And his Word he sends
Returns to Him not void
Until they have accomplished the tasks
Including the trees of life
The shrubs for my paper
` Spread before us
Like empty hearts upon which
To scribble life’s journey
To the Maker you must turn
To You, then, my Lord
For making our trees
And papyruses and shrubs
Good for making paper
Upon which to scribble
Thoughts and words
For touching the hearts
To You, then, my Lord
My eternal gratitude