HearthThe geometries of the hearth are pleasing, more pleasing than mine; there is fire at my feet. The Morris chair in which I sit is wide and deep; it has no ottoman, but no matter, no matter. The glass at my hand is cradling Tokaji, a six, and it dances in the warm light. Everything does: one by one, all of the whiter lights have found ways to dim themselves as people pass.
The ghost would have loved this, of course. The ghost would not be a ghost, then-though: this is not the ghost's fault. The ghost is not responsible. Basta.
We are lit by nothing but the hearth and the tree, and it is time to see about the glasses again.
Merry Christmas.
All content under copyright by the author. Dancing is permitted. The strange deltic glyphs in the sand under tidal flow are a pleasure to watch in their deepening. Offer not valid in Kansas. We put it down and then we lost it. It all happens in the corner of the eye. Mail accepted for the bears in the basement. We have a dog, but we do not own it. Thank you.