#64 The Image of Perfection

There he sits, proud and haughty. Head held high under the crown of greening spring. Blue eyes sharp and knowing. A regal figure indeed and the image of perfection. Cold as a winter's morn he can be, terrible and beautiful to behold. Yet when he smiles… when he smiles, the darkness flees and we are wreathed in summer's light once more. He is that to which I strive to hold myself, for whom I would give my life 'twere what he willed. This flawed yet perfect being. My father, the king. The beating heart of our beloved forest home.