Fireplace Poem by David Welch

An edifice built in gray stone
by careful hands that are long dead,
the mortar gray from decades known,
insides soot-stained from blazes red.
Mantle stone broad across the top,
sporting nick-knacks and curios,
small nails stick out, from them will drop
the stockings, come the Christmas snow.
Long vents draw air the blaze will warm,
then force out to heat half the house,
to give respite when raging storms
knock the furnace's power out.
The crackle inside beats back the gloom,
this fireplace makes the whole room.