High Maintenance Hobbit

- jan-u-wine
T'is seldom difficult,
anymore,
to follow the path
of Master Underhill….
 
The door lies open
to the night
and the rain…..
 
again.
 
A carelessly
flung cloak
drinks
from the puddle
lining the floor.
 
If I look,
I know
I will find rooms
ablaze with candles
where there need be none…
 
and darkness
where
light should be.
 
I know
I will find him,
asleep at his desk,
fingers blackened
by over-turned
ink,
pages lying about his feet,
cold creeping from the unlit hearth.
 
Sometimes,
just
sometimes, you know,
 
he
is
a bit of a chore.
 
It is good that his cloak
has soaked up
so much of the rain:
 
saves me the task of mopping
those cracked tiles…..
 
and the candles,
 
guttering along the hallway,
 
serve to point out
that he's not been as hasty
as is his wont….
 
even the kitchen
(though it suffers from a
surfeit of cups upon the table
and crumbs beneath its rough plank)
seems strangely tidy.
 
Seemingly,
here his patience
(or his attention, I know not which)
ended,
for the hallway
is home to books……
 
a strange path
as of Elvish
stepping-stones,
dots
the floor leading to
the study.
 
No light seeps
from the closed
round
of the door.
 
I should go in,
make sure
he has not taken ill.
 
As quiet as ever I could
be,
I close the door behind me.
 
There is yet a glow
flowing
from the grate
 
A lilt of laugher
(laughter I recognize
somehow)….
the shutter of the lamp
drawn back…..
 
Merry……
 
Pip.
 
Mr. Merry
and
Master Pippin,
I should say….
 
and
 
my Rose,
all sweetly ablush
with the room's warmth.
 
"Surprise!"
 
says he,
 
and takes my hand.
and laughs as if he means to.
 
.
It is September 22 .
 
Happy Birthday, Master.