Simply a Book

A poem about an old book given to me by my Grandfather

Heavy in my hand
Waiting to be loved
Its been read
By many,
But wants more to
See it,
Smell it,
Love it.
I gently touch the surface,
It is leathery
And slightly torn on the corners.
Stiffly it opens
And cracks like ice in the deep December winter.
The pages are vintage yellow
And no longer soft.
Pride still lingers on each page;
The words shine bright black still.
It smells of lost times,
It smells of glorious ages
And dust.
It still smells of my Grandfather's cologne,
Which smelled like the forest in spring
After a light rain fall.
He had given this to me
Many moons ago
Before he passed away.
A smile spreads to my lips
As the clever words
Of William Shakespeare fill my mind,
My Heart,
My Soul.