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.
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