The one who lights the wood stove
Gets up in the dark.

How cold the iron is to the hand
Groping to open the flue,
The hand that will draw back
At the roar of the wind outside.

The wood that no longer smells of the woods;
The wood that smells of rats and mice—
And the matches that are always so loud
In the glacial stillness.

By its flare you’ll see her squat;
Gaunt, wide-eyed;
Her lips saying the stark headlines
Going up in flames.