A silver bell’s tinkle dances through the small shop, And the old man smiles; age-wrinkled hands beckon. The boy patters over to the book on the top, And through the frosty windows peek the stars, winking At the man, the boy, and the books: The old, the young, and the timeless. Once again the boy enters, cheeks flushed and coat gone, In his arms a small lamb with wool whiter than snow. There’s a book just for him, says the old man, voice fond, And they read it together, words steady and slow, Gently drawing each of them in: The old, the young, and the timeless. The days now stretch longer, candles left ’til next fall, Light setting the dust dancing as the boy reads on. Autumn darts through the trees leaving crimson footfalls, And he gathers his schoolbooks, yet still he returns, To sit and to listen to the hearts of the three: The old, the young, and the timeless. Then shadows veil the room, the silver bell silent. Empty is the old man’s chair; the Author’s called him home. The boy, now bearded, locks the shop, eyes distant. Yet behind the dimmed window, echoing through the tomes, Roams a whisper that remembers them: The old, the young, and the timeless.