They wait on you, my sweet, my child –
cocooned between their well-loved covers,
the giants and the spring-fairies and the little
rabbits who build their houses in the Hidden
Hills.

Close your eyes and feel the pages breathe
their magic; warm promises that brush your
fingers and pluck the night from your dreams.
Their nests are made of inks and brushes,
but your bedside curls with heat and the hearth
is filled with fire.

Your eyes are too young yet to see, too dusted
by sleep to take on the burdens of the written
world, but I will sit and watch as the Old Tales conspire
beneath your eyelids.

Do you dream of dukes, of nut-cracker children
with their steady teeth and ice queens in their
palisades, or are you cushioned by the embers of a
world that is too shy to rise above its roots?

You forget, my child, but I will remind you,
and you will soon smell the honeydew
and the ancient seed of vineyard groves, while clouds
loom like cherries yet to be picked. My voice will
lead and whisper, and guide you where I cannot
follow.

So dream, sweet child, and listen; your world is
but a page away.