“I always thought of paradise as a library, not a garden.” (Jorge Luis Borges from Borges at Eighty: Conversations) When I dream, it is both—books along a maze of mossy shelves, never more than shoulder-high. Heaven becomes a puzzle without frustration. Hummingbirds and sparrows dart between memoirs. Rabbits bound beneath novels. A small overhang of slate protects poetry from rain; wild sweet pea vines trail down spines. I pick new friends and old at will: unknown philosophers and favored novelists, childhood loves and unpublished letters, original drawings and maps previously lost at sea. From every bend along the path burst soft gasps of discovery. Delight sits on our shoulders like sunbeams. There’s some irreverence in the presumption that God will form Paradise to your own tastes, still…still… What is heaven but the place where your soul’s hackles finally drop? Under pinking trees, the labyrinth is alive with sunset-colored salamanders and words, the constant whisper of geniuses and saints and regular idiots, all proofed and purified. A treasury where neither mold nor malice corrupts, where booklice and shame cannot break in and steal.