the poem of a lovely room

somewhere, hidden in a bower, bracken filled and flights of wings,
living there, beyond the eye's dreams.....a little person, slight of, weightier than a butterfly
yet silken and fond of sunshine, 
a little person, a friend of gentle folk and foxes of the forest.

moss laden footpaths, winterey and sleeping quietly as the forest speaks.
quiet sounds, far past any memories of solitude, wait for the woodsman, 
watch for the peasant milk maid 
for their lives are old and yet filled with stories

stories of old wooden doors, rooms of thick, heavy books and keys
whose owners know not where they arrive from.

stories of roads of brown, soft soil where wooden carts have fastened long trails
of familiar afternoons. i remember that such places find their way.
ready for the old trees lovely limbs and leaves to feather and dance lightly into the sky.
night falls, dusk and bending light and clouds, softer, more gray than that of fading coal

the foot steps out the unknown door, unknown only to the reader inside
this room filled with handwritten letters for stories yet to tell.

having just watched the endearing, lovely and singularly beautiful

film "Bright Star" of the story of John Keats and Fanny Braun. i have written poetry since age eleven. this wondrous film always takes me away from this world into a place that is divinely delicate and soft. hence my poem. i should share more of my poems. 

find a place that is quiet and serene and lovely, filled with some kind of old and beautiful history and the soft places of your soul will brighten and live again like a little child.