Woodstove in the Old Ranch House

In fall, winter, and early spring,

grey plumes of smoke

sometimes twist and wring,

so for fun in the home,

we sit by the stove,

fully embraced and heated

in a peaceful trove.

How many fires, has this home seen?

How many mires, this home gave lean?

A crackle here, a sudden pitch pop, the scent of alder,

all in a shot; many days I have been away,

in my mind’s eye, this day I sought.

Oh, give me days of heavy rain,

send me waves of levy wane, so in this place,

I may unhurriedly enjoy a healing, Finnish heat,

a warm reminder of life’s kinder feat.

Born in this valley

or come here freight—

know we are gifted now—

let our cares abate.