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
It had been two months, and the apartment complex still smelled of smoke. A gas line had blown two floors above my apartment, only damaging a few of the apartments on the opposite
“The great titan is dead!” Hestia lifted her head from where it rested on the ground. She looked around her, marveling at the scene before her: a crisp blue sky, vibrant green grass,
Francie Farmer wanted to spoil her husband, Frank, for Christmas. They’d been married for fifty-four years, and every year Frank had managed to surprise her and give her the best Christmases of
See the fire blazing In the hearth—so amazing! Hear the branches cracking, Popping and snapping; Watch the flames dancing, Wildly enhancing, Bending, twisting, turning, While their dancing floor is burning! Feel heat
I do not think it’s a pious display, where Our mouths twist themselves into holy words. I do not think it is an intense windgust That lifts our spirits to momentary devotion.
Students' shoulders sag sorrowfully At the Season’s sluggishness, The Semester, stagnant and slow. We trod on our trajectory In a trance, totally and utterly tired, Thankful for the treasured time with family.
They gave you an identity. They told you not to change. These people made you, So they can tell you who you are. And this place, you call home. They took your identity.
Under a cold and watery sun, When the Midas-touched maple branches Have bronzed and gone to sleep— When people crunch the amber leaves With mouse-like scurries, their eyes downturned, Rushing through the cold—
“Dad, I think we should install a fireplace in our living room.” I sat on the edge of the rocking chair—elbows on my knees, sales pitch ready. Dad sat in his green
My gaze turned from the swaying fire tongues in the fireplace to the phantoms of memories that entered and danced around the living room. As Thanksgiving was drawing near, I reminisced over the
“We don’t use the fireplace anymore.” I was the only one who used it anyway. I used it; I loved it. I loved the fire’s dancing, Contained in a cage. It