the old woodstove

The Old Woodstove


i used to contain

fire in my belly

and you would come

with armloads of organic fuel

to feed me 

you’d touch my latch

and gently open my portal

to pause

and gaze upon my heat

as i warmed your weariness 

but it soon became

a toilsome chore

to tend the flame

as the soot of bearing life

stained your calloused hands 

frustration executed

by the boot of your

contempt for my need 

until at last my hinges broke

neath the repeated slamming of my door

as you tossed your scraps of rage my way 

you wanted performance

at the flip of a switch

so you discarded me 

now i lay rusting

out by the old woodshed

where i am overgrown

with the weeds of passing time…. 


But this spring

a visitor arrived to nose her way

through protective thorn and bramble 

and entered by way of my broken door

to build her nest in me 

and once again

i contain

the heat of life

in my belly

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