Books are cover-bound packets of seeds,
With our minds being fertile ground.
Which curiosity with water feeds,
From which new shoots abound.

These seeds of various shapes and sizes,
Containers of compressed thought.
Have potential for what may grow, surprises,
Combined with others bought.

Wisdom-filled with life sun spent,
Pod-packaged experience, wealth.
Each generation, a flourishing sent,
To encourage mind's cultural health.

A garden kept in constant flower,
All varied, colourful and scented.
Ever something growing in its bower,
Is a resplendence unrepented.

Its stock is frequent rearranged,
If the gardener tends it well.
Being often welcome and varied changed,
The next surprise one just can't tell.

Books are more than transcribed thought,
For they allow an author's flare.
To select experience life-long bought,
And with us, shrewd reveal and share.

We learn so much from books of the past,
Which inform our present lives.
Beyond their generation the best will last,
Their well of world-worn words survives.

Yet, there are books which make poor reading,
Whose contents will not grow.
May fail to thrive at their very seeding,
And compared with good will come to know.

But even these books may have their place,
Help us distinguish bad from good.
And though on our shelf we'll not make space,
Find brief room in our garden should.

So read not of habit, but for its gift to mind,
The door it opens to knowledge new.
And through this opening life treasure find,
From which such small beginnings grew.