Garamond's Ghost

The neighbor's hands, they know the grain,

the give and take of pine.

He'll mend a fence, ignore the rain,

with salvaged, weathered line.

My gift's less stout, more purely vain,

a mental archive stored.

I see a sign, a faded stain,

and know the font adored.

That certain curve, that sharp relief,

the precise year it bloomed.

A useless, learned belief,

on dusty paper groomed.

He builds and fixes, solid ground.

I trace a letter's arc.

The smallest detail, neatly found,

a flicker in the dark.