mosaic

The deep cherry door is ajar.
This stoney house can breathe fully. 

With each breath its stones
expand and compress.
I take the tattered burlap holster,
and place the long burning logs
into secure holding.
The kindling waits
under the porch table.
Soon, my friends,
it will be your turn too.

A hound dog scratches at the door
with the chosen stick,
a gem worthy of being placed upon
royalty's silken garments.
Taken from the big pile,
claimed as its own.
Stack after stack
I feel the oak, cedar and elm.

The dulcimer
ring from the next room,
as sweet as the
tabouli tastes today.
The hound dog stares,
wanting to know
the mosaic he, and i
are making.