(Response to Totally Optional Prompts)
In a dreamer's tale is a sack of coins unearthed from his own hearth.
This very hearth reveals surpassing treasure,
coin that breaths at the pine table on kitchen chairs circled close
brewed in a silver teapot tarnished by season's neglect, by pain
burnished anew in transactions of soul sipped
from chipped cups, elixir that lingers long on memory's tongue.
Today again his gaze glances the soft gleam patina-ed by years of your
heart's tread across this threshold your reflection misted in steam
your word enfleshed fragrant as tea a wetness at the eye's edge.