The child in the adult waves behind a wall of glass, for the old woman is reaching for the shelf. Every book is the house of a friend. Each page speaks from the bottom of time. Soon we will see yellow leaves at the end of summer. Soon we will see flowers, after their kind, flutter and scatter just as they do in the poems of Li Ch’ing Chao. And we will see words coming from beyond the clouds. The old woman’s books are promising. They will unwind like cocoons, as every child knows.