My Works


The teapot whistles.
Water begins to boil.
The sun shines over the treetops.

I set the spine-cracked book
On the aged wooden desk
That sits before a large glass window
Overlooking the mountains of mist.

I pour the boiling water
And stir my cup
As I set it down and watch
The sunrise over the peaks.

The water cools
And as I sip,
I flip open to the last page
I journeyed through.
A page where an old man
Made unlikely friends,
Where children became kings and queens,
Where crimes were solved,
And where magic was real.

Each day, new pages to absorb,
With new places, new friends,
And most of all,
New stories.
All at my aged wooden desk,
Never traveling farther than the kitchen.

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