The Watchers

because home truely is where the heart is, cliche as it is...

Ah, Bliss
lift a bettered mug, sipping gentle milk and honey
two feet dangle off the stool
breathing across a woven-forest of yarns and threads
Finally slipping
onto a wooden bar slung across the chair legs

My gaze falls beyond the countertop, the grape ivy, the door,
it too rests
upon the peeling bark of two towering shagbark hickories
that seem to be two giant vultures with thin molting feathers.
They perch tall and straight in a grassy field, their
winds shading over the windows, watching;
Sentinals for what is now
home.