by Benjamin Alva Polley
ODE TO A WOODSTOVE
Sitting by the warmth of a wood stove
in the North Country.
Hearing squirrels chatter
and watching wafts of smoke
linger and spread their fingers
earthward and outward.
I sat in stillness.
Raindrops pittered and pattered
against the cedar-shake shingles.
A dark, dreary, glacier-gray day
hung over the valley.
The skies cried tears of joy and sadness.
A cloud of solitude was seen
embracing and kissing the earth
I was alone.
I was lone---ly but
with a sweet
Last updated April 09, 2011