Hearth

By John I. Blair

Thirty years ago my wife and I
Went hunting for a house to buy.

We looked at quite a few
And then we stopped at this one,
Not special from the street –
White clapboard with a small porch,
A curving walk up to the door,
A shaded yard and promise
Of a space to make a garden.

But when we stepped inside
We found much of the house
Was a single airy room
Zigzagging from the front
Entirely to the back, 80 feet in all,
Half as long as a football field is wide.

A pair of sunny windows gazed
Upon a leafy lawn, arched by elms;
And the east wall held a massive hearth,
Tall bookshelves layered to the ceiling,
A fireplace big enough for logs.

We dreamed
Of crackling fires on frosty nights,
Cozy conversations on a couch,
Scented evergreens and candlelight.

We loved that room, that view,
That fireplace, mantel, hearth,
For now we knew the house
Contained a soul
And all we had to do was nourish it.

©2017 John I. Blair, 9/4/2017

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