On a frigid winter morning

dad, in flannel bathrobe

headed to the basement

where ashes from the coal furnace

had settled into a gray nest.

The slender iron poker, precisely inserted

produced a rhythmic rattle

that echoed throughout the house. . .

Dust and soot flying

he shoveled the ashes,

later used as compost,

into the galvanized bucket.

Shiny black nuggets glistened

when dad tossed fresh coal

into the hungry iron belly

where orange-red flames licked

them to bright heat. . .

Upstairs, the morning's commotion

meant I'd have to roll out of bed

. . .the though brought goosebumps. . .

and I'd scrunch further under the covers

My chenille bathrobe pulled tight

I'd pad downstairs for breakfast

warm my hands 'round a cup of Hershey's cocoa

and munch cinnamon toast.

With clothes draped over the chair

I'd get dressed

standing over the registers

robe billowing like a ballroom gown

savoring the upthrust of heat

that warmed my shivering body

like steam from hot oatmeal. . .

Kathleen Clark