Red Leaves of Mirkwood

Forty-four times have the red leaves fallen in Mirkwood in my home since you arrived, and you have grown only fairer with each passing season. The shimmer about you glowing always all the more brightly.

I sometimes like to think of you as Goldberry — river-daughter, light-dancer, keeper of the glade. Not because you seem untouchable — far from it — but because there's something in you that holds the wild, that sings of water and wind and life as it could be, if only we let it.

When I think of you, I see her there, laughter like a stream, grace like green moss over a stone, eyes alight with the simple joy of being.

And I suppose that would make me Tom… if only in the way I watch you, entranced, heart full. Not to contain you — but to listen, to marvel, to wonder at the wild and wonderfulness of you. And to keep the kettle warm and the door open… always.

Happy Birthday, my pretty lady.

I remain, as ever, yours.