From My Nest

Birch logs, their white bark curling to black,

burn well in the fireplace and throw heat enough

to fill this cavernous room. 

Heat that soon has me yawning 

from my nest on the couch, 

my notebook slipping off my afghan-covered lap, 

my eyelids grow weighted with warmth and drowsiness … 

I know not how much time passes 

but there are rosy embers only aglow 

in the grate when I awake. 

I am at once refreshed, at peace 

and ready to try writing again.