the raconteur

When the first rays fell upon his face,

Simon picked his weight

and walked from his cave

into the world that waited

for his words and his stories.

The bleeding hat pulled down

to cover his eyes, the whisper

of his palm grazing

the bristle of his beard,

the khnch as he stepped on a leaf.

The light filtered through the stubborn

ones that still clung to their homes.

To walk for a few more days,

before the snows enveloped the world,

before he slept, and dreamed

of everything you and I could conjure over our lifetimes.

All in those months of cold, the warmth

came from the stories, not from the fire.

He shifted the sack onto the other weakened shoulder.

Time to find another.

Time to not dream anymore and wake up silent.

Follow the sound of the flowing water,

the children playing there. The ones

always willing to listen.

The stories ready to burst out by now,

unwilling ears his only fear.

Khnch-khnch-khnch, walking

into the day, the raconteur seeks

your audience.