Books in dusty solitude

    
I don't know what to make of it      
do not understand; when there's time      
must sit and think, seeking  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 shall learn a lot,      
what tools to use and care to take,      
hand down a book, then if I find,  
what to make of it?