A playground of small games
a warmth chosen just for them — it finds them when they next return
let the fire's weather rhyme with your own — a gift, only ever additive. your place stays coarse (never a precise spot) and is yours alone; no one else can tell.
what will you offer him?
what this place remembers — the weather, the fires, and the deeds no single name holds
the pages are still bare — the region has yet to gather its legends.