Those in the parlors reading the still stories, the slow stories
Look out the window, then read, then look out slowly.
The leaves appear on the trees and fall from the trees,
As the readings in slippers proceed, slowly.
The lamb’s wool in the slippers is warm, warming the readers,
Like the prose and verse in the stories, warm and still,
And the readers’ feet are soft like the wool in the stories,
But the stories are dry, alas, like the space that the feet fill.
So the old eyes look at the pages, the old, dry pages,
And the old mouths mutter that authors are too verbose,
And the old hands holding the pages let loose the pages
As the seasons pass in the slippers, and slowly the eyes close.