Formidable, he sits Enthroned on his golden seat His golden pelt gleaming In the golden light of candles set in— What else? Golden sconces   Undaunted, she sits Perched upon an ottoman Fingering harp-strings Flowing golden notes Her eyes ache from so much Gold   “You sigh?” He asks, his voice a golden grumble   “No. Well, that is… Yes, I did sigh. Why must everything be so gold?”   “Is it not to your liking?” Surprisingly concerned He leans forward Golden eyes intent   “I…” She strums an aimless chord “I am used, my lord, To simpler things. The green of fresh grass Blue of the sky Silver of a star Red of a…”   “Yes?”   Another sigh. “Of a rose.”   “Ah. But you care not For my rich gold, My gilt mirrors, My engraved goblets, My jeweled baubles?”   She gives a pretty shrug, And finally meets his gaze “I do not dislike,” She admits, a dainty finger Stroking her rose-soft gown “But it goes down hard, Like a chocolate cake— You need simple milk To wash it down.”   “Ah.”   They sit, not speaking She brushes her fingers across The gilded strings And silently concedes Her admiration of their Golden tones.   He stands. “I will return.”   She watches him go, puzzled His bulky form oddly graceful Melting into the candle-shadows She plays a simple melody To pass the time, but stops And rolls her eyes This country tune was not made For such rich strings.   “Here,” His deep, dark voice Emerges from the shadows, And he holds out to her a gift His eyes masked with indifference But eager, like a little boy He hopes she will like it.   She takes the gift, and smiles. A laugh burbles in her throat, And she lifts it to her lips:   Fresh milk, In a golden cup.