Story Weaver

Brews imagination with softly uttered words
Caresses the quiet, eager air
A voice aged to satisfy the cravings of one's ears
So many times, now once again
He puts bright faces to black ink
And ornaments the silence

I thought of this while I was in the library today. I remembered this guy who used to tell us stories, back when I was around three years old. I don't remember if he made them up, or if they were from books, but either way, I enjoyed them.