SITTING BY THE FIRE

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 There he sits his craggy face, crinkly eyes, and dreamy smile betraying the joy he feels inside. He sits with fingers inked, Notes strewn over his lap. Not snoring, just the occasional yawn and a wrinkle of his nose, catching the scent of stew upon the stove. 

A curious fellow. At times he appears distracted,  catching a nap like he does, by the fire. Don't fret. He's no quitter. He is one whose arms are wrapped tight around the muse.  Whose very dreams bathe in the mystic pools of Story. For he is a writer don't you see?

A wordsmith. A poet. Perhaps he's famous? He looks important don't you think? He could be, the way he wrinkled his nose like that.

A Writer. Imagine that. Oh my word, a Writer. What a marvellous thing to be.







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