Not gold but golden, engraved,

given in love and friendship.

Fifty years of service shared,

it marks the time of my grandfather.

 

A time of war that briefly took

him from the books he guarded,

shepherded and shared with patrons

of the library he loved.

 

And I was one he taught

to love those shelves of words,

waiting each week when we would trek

across the town to seek anew.

 

The ritual of handing back the read,

return marked in the lending ledger,

new books stamped with a smiling flourish,

admonishment to not be late.

 

The watch still ticks its silent years,

as it did for my father in his time.

A timepiece passed, a baton

handed on, love of books bestowed

 

beyond the generations. I guard no books

save those few I call my own.

But I guard the watch, the memory

and joy of reading, devouring every line,

 

impatient for the next. Hands, ever turning

as mine to the next tome, each new adventure

a century in making, a legacy preserved.

And still the hands move on.