Half my wintertime life, or so it seems, I spend standing beside our old Round Oak stove—which stands at the center of our house—hands behind my back, resting on my butt, palms out, warmth of the fire in the woodstove working its way into my body. Then turn around and bake the other side. Too hot? Just move a step or two away. It’s so simple, easy. And all you’ve got to do is work all year, sweat and heave and groan to make this little moment happen. Oh, now I sing praises to a wood fire, to the heat this smoky burning liberates, the heat that keeps us warm all winter. Oh, praise this primordial fire, praise heat in its most basic form: the blessed warmth that comes from our old, wood burning, Round Oak stove.
I can never write enough words or take enough pictures to really capture my deep love for wood heat.
It warms my feet, my soul, my spirit. I love the smell of the fire, the sight of the fire.
I love the line at the end of the poem that says
" Blessed Warmth that comes from our old wood burning stove. "