Wood Stove

Tuesday, December 8, 2020

I sailed down cement stairs 
guided by the cracked maple rail.
Him.
By the wood stove,
watching the flames waltz.
I rest in the performance
as winter chills the outer bones.
Scent of logs marked by age,
who ached to touch fire,
burned in my memory.
I can taste our nights in the back of my throat, 
if I swallow enough faded sunlight. 
Folk music bouncing off of the cast iron,
calling our ears home. 
Our own nook of summer
in a bitter winter.
Our dog letting out a satisfied groan,
as the breath of heat pats her fur.
Gathering as if a pack of hungry wolves,
fed by fire. 
Our pack, quite soft.
Saved by the whistle of the chimney.

By the rising of the buttery moon,
we found the pantry’s glory.
Mason jars full of homegrown kernels.
The breath of spring’s garden lingering.

Popcorn cooked atop the fire stove
and a piece of myself stayed in the basement of our first home.
A longstanding craving filled 
by more than popcorn.


This poem was published by Poetically Magazine. 

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