I Begin in Scrolls

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This is an old story. Once in a time

long past I unfurled my little page.

No one knew I could move. Light

hushed in wind and shadow. I wrote

the book of ocean tides, the book

of ancient moon. Time was time.

In the morning hour, I searched

for the sun to cast a spell when it

was still of help to wish for a thing.

There was and there was not. I made

the sound of paper. A seed travels

through time and books are made

from leaves. I was painted as water

was being strewn and sand was being

poured. Art is based on plant life.

Bran here, flour there. Faithful

representation, though, is rarely

the point of form. Return my story.

Feed me bread and water. I folded

up in darkness. A bell rang in time

and I opened to the world. Red,

redder, this tale is over. This book

comes to an end, but the story yet

remains. Scrolls have relentless power.

I’ve told you what is coming.