With boots upon my feet and Joe in my cup;
one cream, two sugars to combat the
bittered blackness of which it was brewed.
Each step towards rest I take upon
this yellowed-reddish blanket of leaves
is, as they say, "blackening" but more revealing
the packed earth below it--step by step.
To gaze upon the barren branches renews
our sense that growth will come again.
Within sight, the cabin, built by hands
of generations past. Pawing on the door, my
friend, who's coat is not black nor gold
but somewhere in between. He waits and
greets his lifelong pal, who left but moments before.
Removed are my shoes and the caked mud
that accompanies them. With the chimney asmoked
and a fire now roaring, I seek my fill
in the chestnut cabinets above the darkened
limestone countertops and drawers of aged oak.
This loaf of wheat just waiting to be toasted
to a crisp and be adorned with peanut
butter: the spread of divine providence.
With newly gathered eggs and bacon sizzling
away, the time to rest is drawing near.
Placing the feast on the wooden table before
me and finding a seat upon this handmade
chair, I breath and sigh and know,
"This is home."
