How does one write of the making of a poet..? It is not obvious to me, therefore it must be a secret to create such magic with words. Those that have walked that road will know, like the fine words teller I met tonight. I shall write down what I felt when listening to such words while hiding away from view as I am not accustomed to gathering, nor to dance and music, although I do enjoy such fine pursuits greatly. Time has a different meaning in the land of the hobbits, as if it was not important any more, as if in the Shire one could achieve some form of immortal life , to this moment I am not sure how long I remained hidden behind an old oak tree listening to such fine words. Joy and enjoyment came easily, as feeling and emotions for some of the words be spoken seemed to awoke something deeply asleep.
My hands gently caressing the tall grass in the fresh breeze of a late Summer night. In the distance fields of gold and vines heavy with sweet grape, ready for harvest, no wander the hobbit folk looked so happy. To me this is the month of magic, joy and exhilaration as mother-earth is about to give birth to her bounty, and yet darkness is looming, the days are getting shorter as the balance between light and dark is restored. I must confess my greatest passion for this time of the year, perhaps I am growing older.
It is the simple magic which sometime is the most spectacular, like the magic of words spoken by poets, like the magic of music emerging from an harp, like the magic of color in the hands on a painter. I call this magic for it makes people stop and listen and stare. I became brave tonight, and walked out of my hiding place so that I was seen by the little people. Some were scared, others stared at me in awe, a few did even talked gently, many politely ignored me for it is unusual for a woman to be seen in the Shire, it is not my place and I shall leave for now.
Let it be so !
