The last cup of chai

There is a wall facing a mountain in a valley filled with trees.
Upon this wall is a picture from a time long long ago.
On the table behind the wall is a book filled with pages.
In the distance a woman weeps. The last page is written.

The mountain trembles and is covered with smoke.
A dove flies from an evergreen tree clinging to the face of the peak.
As she lands atop the house, a serpent slithers from beneath the steps.
A bent man with a cane makes his way across the porch with care.
Sitting upon a gnarly oaken stool he lights his hand carved pipe.
His once red beard is now grey with cares and troubles and wisdom.
As he looks at the landscape smoke from the mountain and his pipe
Dance high above him. With passion and fervor unknown before.
He longs to read the book. He longs to gaze with warm eyes upon the story
Penned in toil reverence and love. The last page is written.
A silent tear caresses his careworn face and drops to the porch.
It disappears into the aged lumber at the feet of his seat.

The woman emerges gracefully from the house to bring him
A cup of steaming chai which she places carefully upon the railing.
He thanks her with a grunt. She rubs his shoulder and turns to leave.
He takes her hand ever so gently and raises it to his lips.
Their eyes meet and a gentle breeze sweeps gently across the yard
The flowers blooming in the garden sway dancing as only those free may.
The pages of the book flutter open. The last page is written.
They both smile. She turns to leave. Holding her hand he rises.
They dance. A slow faltering dance, the serpent and the dove.
The last page is written