It’s been said:
“Hope survives best at the hearth.”

Not my hope.
Not at my hearth.

The tile is cracked
And pokers, rusted and crumbling;

The forest is now a desert, kindling dwindling,
And my home’s flame has been put out.

My hope in the past is cracked with the tile.
My hope in the present is crumbling with the pokers.

But my hope for my future home is a roaring flame itself.