Shelves of books loom around me,
Filled with the old and worn, and the bright and new.
This building I’ve visited a thousand times,
And each time holds a different surprise.
A recent release of a popular book series,
Or perhaps the addition of sofas for the patrons’ pleasure.
What stands out most, though, is not the books I’ve discovered,
Or even the reading nook in which I’ve spent a plethora of hours,
But the people who stream in.                               
Rosy faces warming up from the cold outside,
An old man stolidly reading his newspaper in the corner chair.
Children tugging at their parents’ arms as if the best books will run away if not caught,
A toddler lugging a bag full to the brim with picture books galore,
The love of reading that is so palpable in the air. 
This is the real beauty, the real magic of the library,
Where within the aisles burrow young and old alike,
Where everybody is equal and all have a place.