More on some of the things I'm reading soon. For now, a poem I penned a couple of days ago. It sure is lovely to be hanging out with Bilbo again.
As anyone who knows me likely knows,
at home my life is filled with lovely prose.
Green hills, good food, a round and solid door,
my pipe and blooming garden, heathered moor.
All’s quiet here until the kettle sings.
You’ll find me on the doorstep blowing rings.
But you can read me like an open book.
Away? My life’s a poem, a rushing brook.
The cozy, prosy things so sure and sweet
are like a dream. They keep me on my feet
when journey’s long and all becomes a quest.
And sometimes I’m not sure which I love best.
The homey prose, it fills my traveler’s pack,
but it’s poetry that sings me there and back.
I couldn’t live without the deep, familiar places.
But oh! Indeed I love the wilder spaces.