Books Poem by James McLain

I am like your book some have hidden away.
Without yours my covered, bared page.
Making good on the promise I reach for the wind.
Not to any binder each wave needs the course.
Dancing across my ocean she is the world, spoken poetry.
May the poorest of all travelers trust this path take.
Without being too oppressive bread our toll.
Frugality bleeds off of my soul.
Is it this his great chariot do they fear?
That carries each human to the light, back home.