The Hearth

Expended match ends litter the charred

rocks that surround the gas fireplace

but the logs, themselves, are pristine,

never consumed by the incessant fire.

An intricately woven grate of steel wire

embellished with a fleur-de-lis guards

the tongues of flame, thwarting

my desire to huddle closer to the fire.

I turn the lounge chair to the left,

to rest my feet on the brick hearth

and open the bright blue cover

of The 39 Clues, a murder mystery

detailing a family feud over

a grandfather’s will and treasure.

Trish knits threads of coarse wool

into a child’s sweater that ends up

being a scarf. She’s around when

mom isn’t, baking sweets or doing

laundry but always part of the family.

My dog, Porsche, sprawls on the carpet,

his black fur warmed by the fire,

his muzzle whiskers white with age,

my best friend since birth. There is

nothing that can move me

to go outside.

George Kite