Monday, August 30, 2010
The muffled echo of the roosters crow
just before the sun rose o'er the hill,
A snapping beam, a sudden thud of snow,
And morning crept across the needled chill
Of wintry night; from valley chimneys rose
White plumes of smoke, inside bright fires glowed
Through open draughts, while from the kettles nose
A billowing singing steam cloud flowed.
The iron griddle soon browned bubbling cakes
The red checkered cloth upon the table spread
Sill in my heart an old-time song awakes,
And pictures from a time long since fled.
The old black stove and its rosy embers,
Sweet woodsmoke, a plant upon the sill,
The cozy warmth and peace my heart remembers,
The old clock's steady tick, the lovely thrill
A rainbow lights through icicles reflected,
And warm new milk within an earthen mug. . .
No farther than these walls my thoughts deflected,
Contented as the curled cat on the rug.
~Ruth B. Field~
By the end of summer here in the heat of North Texas, I start dreaming about winter. Of the smell of wood stove smoke, and soup simmering all day long on the wood stove. I think about the cold air of morning when the stove is cold after a long nights sleep. Of the joyful moments spent sitting at my spinning wheel, wool all around me. I dream of needing a sweater and having my feet toasty warm in thick wool socks. This morning as I was reading through a book of poems I came across this little poem about winter memories and oh how it touched my heart. It spoke exactly of what my winter morning are so often like. I have no desire to rush time but I sure wouldn't mind if summer decided it was time to leave this part of the country and head south.
It is a silent sort of morning, sitting next to the wood stove in my rocker, watching the birds outside my windo...