Past the pages and into the world
Below the boughs of the reading tree
On a carpet of prickly green
Sat a little red chair, imagining.
Whose fingers will caress arms,
Already worn smooth from company.
Whose hips will settle between
and press into the seat.
Whose legs will dangle slowly
or, per chance, graze the ground.
Past the pages and away from the world
Sheltered within the woven words
Of a storytellers mind
sits a reader, imagining.