A fire flickers in the hearth, warm and cheering,

Glowing and growing, its essence my heart searing.

A library in the upstairs, smelling of old books,

Every crevice filled, a tome in all of the nooks.

A old tomcat curled in the loveseat,

Its pelt glowing in the heat.

The storm rages on the wooden walls,

Coming in great, enormous squawls.

The smell of chicken cooking fills the house,

Not another human in the room, perhaps not even a spouse.

There is a novel open in my lap, and on the end table,

A mug of cocoa to accompany my fable.

As I sit on the rug,

Unable to disturb my pet so smug.

I have never seen this place, save for in this writing,

But this is my home, where I will begin to sing.

Where I might soothe my own fears,

And at fewer times come to tears.

It would never be perfect, on the contrary!

It would be my sanctuary.