Somewhere in Time and Kentucky

Somewhere in time and Kentucky,
‘tween furnace fire and frigid flurries,
beats the heart and warms the blood
and finds the brain
bittersweet in joy and pain.

By cast iron stove the scuttle sits,
full of coal and snowy bits
melting, glistening, into drips
that rust the metal bucket’s pit
and reinforced wire upper lip.

Though the scuttle’s galvanized,
acidic anthracite denies
longevity; yet, for today,
keeps my heart alive
and ice and cold at bay.

Quiet rooms; silent home;
floor of wood on cornerstone;
Bible fast by telephone;
I do not feel alone
for I know and I am known.

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