told around big tables
filled with too many arms and legs and not enough chairs,
but plenty of laps.
I am from books stacked on bricks and boards
behind the chair by the fireplace and stashed
in a small green suitcase.
I am from books carried on trips,
and into trees,
making anywhere I went seem like home and home
feel like a place far, far away.
I am from book lovers
who bought, borrowed, and shared favorites,
never thinking that a story was beyond
the reach of my eager eyes.
I am from fingers running gently and reverently
over new covers,
of inhaling the scent of pages opened for the first time
or the 2nd, the 10th, the 100th time.
I am from poems of childhood remembered
and wonders found in the pages
of yellow-bordered magazines
on the table by grandpa's chair.
I am from books and stories and magazines and newspapers,
surrounded by words and worlds,
filling me up
but never so full