To the Pages of her Book

Her fingers trace down the length of the page

(burn’t saphires, page scan, remembering…)

branded skin of trees, stretched out, and aged,

tell her stories of ghosts and a changeling,

of magic treasure and a secret map,

of ruby bridges , a riddled goblin,

of secret passageways, a hidden trap;

tales of secret loves and hates forbidden,

all these caught in an enchanted old word

that she reads before bed, before closing

her eyes, but just like the song of a bird,

they echo in her mind and leave a ring

      distinct to her memory, and it shines

      in her eyes like burning jewels in sleeping mines.