The Wood Stove

In summer, it just sits there,

a cold cast iron stove, unused now,

‘cept to lay out plates for plating

or to absorb the heat of Sunday’s roast,

a frypan of this morning’s bacon

fat congealing resting there, counter space.

But come September, the kids gone back to school,

quiet settling again on the lake as the summer

folk return away to their homes, and the leaves

turn slowly to brown and red and gold,

the night temperatures will drop from comfortable

to cold by sunrise. We’ll crawl from of our beds

then, quilted and warm, to lay out the kindling

and yesterday’s news to start a blaze

from seasoned wood, cut and chopped and stacked,

now crackling, snapping to life our old stove

on this chilly morning, warming us

and reminding us of the seasons’ cycling, one season

into another, and us with it, growing older,

seasoned, though, cast like iron ourselves

to absorb the heat of our own lives blazing.