Frodo's First Day Home (after the Quest)

- jan-u-wine

and all the small and simple things......
 
________________________
 
the gate's crooked edge,
bound,
closed
against the night,
 
tiny frightened
tongues
of the fire
licking
green
and red,
spitting
sudden vehemence
into the sky
of the flue,
 
the hard,
cracked
ridge
of tile,
dusty by the door....
 
the door.......
 
the door.
 
Defier of darkness,
gateway....
 
ever-beckoning
 
gateway,
upon whose kindly face
I rest
my Road-weary head......
 
the clean rub of linen
folding tight
about me,
the soft wind-smell
of blankets dried in autumn gardens....
the ever-falling drift of sweet/sharp-quilled
mattress...
pillows.....white and deep
as snow-drifts......

lazy amber-eyed sun,
light spilling
slowly
up the length
of the bed.....
 
ice,
brittle,
sharp as teeth....
cold,
cold upon the blue
face of the basin....
 
the odd, harsh
comfort
of the water's
shocking
chill.
 
the summer yellow
of butter,
pooling
into pillowed,
lemony eggs,
lying like  daisy-eyes
against the black
of the battered pan.
 
the wide, white  warmth of
milk,
winking
in its pail....
heavy  
with scent of honest earth.
 
the pure
crisp
brown
of honey'd loaves,
steam rising
as they rest on the oven's
open mouth......

sticky-sweetness
of seed-cake,
autumn leaf-smell
of  tea
steeping
in the cracked mustard-yellow
pot.
 
two plain cups,
side-by-plain-side,
fine,
to me,
as any
service for a king,
upon the strewn
plank of the table.
 
the garden.
 
the tumult
of the roses,
dizzying
in the blaze of sun,

the tender sweet green
of saplings
entwined
by solemn
unyielding
deep-delving
roots........
 
and the small
and simple
Master
of it all......
 
 
My hand
closes about
the sturdy gnarled
form
of those very same roots,
 
so close,
so
wonderfully close
above my head....
 
my eyes open,
it seems,
from faded dream.
 
There is too much
color....
 
too much scent....
 
too much sound
 
about me.

 
There is too much
for me
to feel.
 
I look into the calm
burnished gilt
of the glass:
 
I touch the face reflected
there.
 
I have not looked
into my own eyes
for many a lonely day.
 
I find myself
sitting
behind the study's
high desk.
 
This room holds
a silence
peopled  with purpose,
heavy with life.
 
My life......
 
it waited for me,
here,
safe
within this sun-lit
warmth.

carefully,
I pick up the pen that
has lain,  untouched
for what seems an age.

The ink is dark upon the gold glitter of the nib.  
 
Elvish letters
spill
in light
and beauty,
silver-starr'd
upon the page.
 
No less a wonder,
the crystal
drops
that fall
with joy
to lie alongside them.

_________
and all the small
and
simple things.


[the poet's postscript]

No one has ever deserved to come Home more.