~for my grandfather
He is waiting, sitting
quietly beside the small wood stove —
today, burning coal,
turned roaring-orange red.
Two old and wrinkled hands
hold a little girls dress,;
being warmed by the fire
that he built – kindling, coal-
stoked for good measure.
He’s been up for hours
by the time I slide from bed,
go to stand by the stove —
slip on the warm clothes.
Every winter morning —
this act of quiet love,
repeated as ritual
Until spring comes again and
the stove grows cold.
~November 2011
Small Pieces of Being 
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