Old Soul

Her soul was made
Of the scent of well-worn books,
Of light reaching the roots of trees,
And murmured conversations
By the fireside.
It was woven in knitted thread
And bronzed. Formed
Of steam sighing over tea,
And fingers softy plucking strings.
Her soul was a forest. A library.
The night sky. A song.
Her soul was a shimmering,
Bottomless lake,
Ever sinking
Deeper away from the world.

– s. Clark