Hands like wisps of parchment
Thin and delicate so you’d think the
Firelight should shine right through them.
Nodding in his carven chair
Among his cushions and shawls he sits.
Furrows of joy and care alike
Have traced his beloved face;
The memories of his life are in its creases.
Crowned with white wool by the passing of years,
He warms himself
And the light shines upon him like fire and snow.
Soft curls touch near sleeping eyes.
The book and pen lay open in his hands,
Slowly slipping off of his knee.
Outside the fountains splash softly,
And scents of flowers and woodsmoke
Warm beeswax and spices fill the room.
We do not wish to wake him –
It heals the heart of journeying just to watch him sleep.
The logs settle into cinders with a sound like glass.
I wasn’t sleeping.
Now, where were we in your tale?
Tell me all about it. Don’t leave anything out.