A Good Book and a Cup of Tea

 an evening surrounded with darkness like a shroud,

provides the perfect setting for silence.

the room is lit by one lone reading lamp,

and a fire burns softly in the granite fireplace,

 with its orange flames lapping lazily at the logs,

 as it slowly works to consume them.

I settle into a favorite easy chair to relax,

and drink in the quiet as well as my tea,

which emits ephemeral tendrils of steam,

 as it steeps in the plain white mug.

the novel waits on a slab of wood with legs,

which is a table lovingly crafted by my husband.

it is whispering my name as it calls ‘read me’.

I resist, but fighting its siren call is futile,

because the black words on the stark white pages,

hold me firmly in their strong compelling grip,

and the tale so expertly woven by the author,

demands to be finished this very night.

the plot provides so much to ponder,

with a battle between the forces of good and evil,

being played out before my anxious eyes.

certain sections make me gasp as the tension builds.

Finally, the last chapter fills in the gaps,

and brings closure with good prevailing.

I gently close the book and lay in on the table.

all is right in their world; if only it was in this.