Stoke the Fire

The Woodstove

The further from the wood-burning stove I got,

The less heat I felt; it became cold not hot,

Especially at night crawling into bed,

The sheets were like ice, and I covered my head,

I breathed into the shelter that I had made,

I was shivering cold and a little afraid,

In wintertime, it was always cold in my Mamaw’s bedroom,

Not to mention the toilet seat in the nearby bathroom,

In the morning when the fire had slowly died down,

I lay pressed to the bed in my flannel nightgown,

The layers of quilts made it too heavy to turn,

So, I lay in one spot, for electric heat I did yearn,

My Papaw would get up first and stoke the fire,

Adding wood and making a warmth I’d desire,

At last, my bare feet would touch the wood floor,

Then I’d run to the woodstove to get warm once more,

I’d change into my clothes right there by the heat,

Putting socks and shoes on my icy cold feet,

Soon the chill would lift and become a comfortable day,

And the memory of the nighttime would fade slowly away.

Tammy Harvey

Written:  1/15/2018