A lonely island, an empty rock,

Midst the storm-tossed sea.

All alone, what a shock!

What would I need with me?

 

A book, a tool, a Swiss-Army Knife?

A friend, a home, a piping tin fife?

Technology, theology, or focusing glass?

Tomatoes, potatoes, or sweet-cane grass?

 

Why – there are so many things to do!

So many hoops and hurdles to jump through!

Too many uses – too many ifs,

A hundred ideas, a thousand maybe-skiffs.

 

No – a choice I'll make, hopelessness presumed,

My books I'll take, assuming that I am doomed!

Books on an island, books all the time,

Tomes for my mind, lest it rust or rime.

 

Glories in stories, a library of thought,

They comfort and soothe, when a sickness I've caught.

Imagination indication, from gray matter wrought,

They comport and smooth, just as they ought.

 

Yes to bindings and paper and ink on a page.

Yes to words and letters and each hard leather cage.

Yes to writing on the wall!

Yes to the reason for it all!

 

On an island, alone, with all the books to be had,

…You know, that doesn't sound that bad!