Once Upon a Would be Writer’s Den

Golden browns play with ruddy browns, russets and auburns, swirling in hidden portraits deep within the texture of cultured woods inhabiting a den. Windows overlook doubled desks, or is it the other way around; large windows covering the upper two thirds of a wall, windows looking out over a town yawning below and echoing the songs of verdant mountains in the distance.

Books, silently shouting out their stories, occupy wooden bookcases below the windows and over the desks and across the hall, above cabinets and in cabinets and around cabinets, a preposition’s dream. On top of the bookcases under the windows and along shelves lining walls doze keepsakes, mementos and relics of places far away, memories of other lives, seemingly very full lives, not quite well lived.

Perhaps a poet’s heaven and why not, the city they inhabit lives high amidst fleecy clouds, overlooking a sunset artist’s studio, high in a southern sky.
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