Woodstove

Oct 19 2019

The woodstove is black.

They all come that way,

a dark flat finish

that seems to absorb

all the heat and light in the room.

And heavy gauge steel,

so dense

it comes with its own gravitational field.

It sits on the cold concrete floor

in a basement corner,

hulking, moored

immovable.

The large window

of tempered glass

has a smokey pall.

But this is the premium glass,

and came with an etching of a log cabin

for which I ponied-up extra

back when everything was new

and beauty seemed to matter.

I watch the manic dance of flame,

riveted

by the red and yellow glow

roiling and licking

and filling the window

that barely contains it.

My nose twitches

as birch bark burns,

stripped

from well-seasoned wood

to reveal the soft pink layer

hidden beneath.

I am soothed

by the warmth infusing my skin

the gentle crackling of fire.

Pockets of sap

detonate like gunshots.

We belly-up close,

drawn to the hearth

at the heart of home;

its elemental force

and the compulsion of fire

bred in our bones.

How I want out reach out and touch

that black inferno,

the life force of fire

filling the room

with its guttering light.

Like moths to flame

mesmerized by fire

we circle around

inching in.

Like orbiting bodies

around a central star

we feel its pull,

the circle cinching tighter.