It was cold.
A sudden crackle,
the snap of flame
and red warmth spread through the room
from the staunch, cast-iron woodstove
huddled in a corner
by the rocking chair.
Its glass window was blackened
with soot, testifying to its unwavering service
defending the house from winter's merciless jaws
with only a few pieces of wood
and some old newspaper. Nothing
had kept it from its job in all its long years.
Even when the fickle electric neighbors
the woodstove happily gave its warmth for
cooking, heating water,
Now the house is empty
and the always-faithful woodstove
has been abandoned,
left to wear cobwebs
and give a house to mice where there once
And although outside, it was summer,
it was cold.