A Homely Place

A massive, arch-shaped hearth of stone, old shiplap walls of weathered oak, warm, woolen rugs of corded make, ancient rocker, it creaks a lot. Fire consumes thick maple logs, perched low on a wrought iron gate, cast shadows flicker on the wall, on the dog snoozing by the chair. All his fur must be decorative since he always hogs the fire, a brindle-mutt with gray muzzle, might just lick intruders to death. Round window reveals falling snow, and frosted pasture beyond it, safe within this homely cottage, hear the sounds of owls at night. Such a place I will imagine, sanctuary, my escape, but deep down know, if I had it I’d be bored within two hours. …I guess some aren’t meant for peace.