The Old Book

Nestled on a window seat,

With cup of tea on table neat,

Reclines a figure, deep engrossed

In pages yellow, torn, and old.

Sunlight beams upon the leaves

Where printed words are barely seen,

But carry such a power vast

That decades since have held them fast.

The silent figure sits and reads

For hours, in the book’s reprieve

From hardships constant, dreary, cold,

And lives in mind’s adventures bold.