August Hearth
As the crickets fiddled in the
tall dark grass and the
bats swept through the sky,
I sat in front of my chiminea,
feeding the flames dead twigs
and dried leaves.
Cross-legged in my beach chair,
with a salty paperback and a bowl
of shelled peanuts at my feet,
I sat under the towering twin oaks
that stood like sentinels
next to the door of my old cottage.
Gray smoke and waifs of ash
filtered through the leafy limbs
that offered shade hours earlier.
The field behind the back of the
chiminea was almost pitch black,
save for the moon and the fireflies,
and depending on my mood,
I sipped a chipped mug of coffee
or a sweaty bottle of beer
as I found solace while listening
to baseball on my radio and feeling the fire’s
warmth on my bare legs and arms.
Copyright © Matt Kindelmann | Year Posted 2020
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