Books in dusty solitude

 
 
I don't know what to make of it  
do not understand; when there's time  
I'll sit and think, seek  pages  
on library shelves made years ago,  
answers hid somewhere, cramped  
deep in dusty solitude and out of reach.  
 
There's wood in the garden shed  
enough to make a ladder,  
To  reach the high most shelf,  
its sound, no worms, no mould;  
it will take some time.....there is enough  
On the way I shall learn a lot,  
what tools to use and care to take,  
hand down a book, then if I find.........  
what shall I make of it?