Awaiting A Greater Library Poem by Annie Jane

Walk backwards through the book written so far,
Back,
Back,
Each day a page, so, seventy
Since the start.

Turn,
Keep turning,
And arrive where it started, there,
Stop.
It starts, in a windowless room,

Where the light was from you and your open door.
Sitting at a piano I can’t play, you
Closed the door,
Spilled secrets,
At long last.

From the autumn to the ice
We have come half-circle.
Two chapters told already,
More being written,
Making way for a greater library.