Celestial characters play across the bedroom ceiling
as the fire's last flickering coals lay dying in the ash.
I lie here, drowsy, covered with the quilted blanket.
The alarm having gone off an hour ago.
I remain huddled in the warmth of the bed
the cold air sharp against my face.
Dreading the launch from warm solace
to the biting cold of reality.
Wondering who in their right mind
decided wood burning heat was
a good idea?
Being ardently opposed to the use
of gas and oil I can only blame myself.
Deciding the trouble isn't worth it
to climb from this fortress of bliss,
I pull the quilt closer and close my eyes.
Then the telephone, ringing, ringing, ringing.
I wonder how many times it will ring until they give up.
Six, seven, ten times.  
I really must get an answering machine someday.
Or maybe not, as I smile to myself and sink
further into my feather tick mattress,
putting off the day for as long as possible.