where the writers are
winter morning memory

~for my grandfather

He is waiting, sitting

quietly beside the small wood stove –

today, burning coal,

turned roaring-orange red.

Two old and wrinkled hands

hold a little girls dress,;

being warmed by the fire

that he built – kindling, coal-

stoked for good measure.

He’s been up for hours

by the time I slide from bed,

go to stand by the stove –

slip on the warm clothes.

Every winter morning –

this act of quiet love,

repeated as ritual

Until spring comes again and

the stove grows cold.


~November 2011