The Prancing Pen

Pull up a seat for the fire’s ablaze
And there’s many a tale untold.
Rest up your feet, remember the days
A good story never grew old.
Look—if you dare—to something out there
On edge of a sound barely heard.
Stay in a chair and go anywhere
On wings of a spellbinding word.
Lost in a thought just found in a rhyme
Hold tight or you’ll lose it again;
Willingly caught and musing the time
In the light of the prancing pen.

 

—Weylan Deaver