Warm Sunday Morn

Flames race up the fireback As sparks burst beneath the latest logs The largest is well past seasoned It will not last long in this late Winter third load of wood Radiance warms my forehead and stretched out right foot As I sit in laid back acceptance of my masonic mastery The carved wooden fish caught in the inlaid brick joints Smiles and stares forever up at the Four by eight mantel It's the cast off of a wooden spoon carved twenty five or more years ago and burnt here When it cracked after years of use. The fish smiles on The fire spits and sputters for more wood.