Leaves turn red.

I love personal inscriptions in books.

Today Hannah and I went to Russel Books on Fort Street. Aisles of books climbing the walls, stretching out toward the street. Books once held in the hands of someone else. I searched for a deal on some Maya Angelou or Leonard Cohen. I bought a couple of books of poems, but not by either poet.

The most intriguing part of the experience was reading the personal inscriptions just inside the book covers--comminuqué among comrades, letters from lovers.

"The best gift in life is a good friend, Tim."

"I do love you... me."

I wondered at the meaning behind their gift, where life has taken them since, and how the recipient decided to be finished with a souvenir of their relationships.

I find myself wanting to read the poetry of these characters instead.