The tin coffee pot, blue enamelware
sits on the stove missing its lid—
it’s just for decoration but there is a sadness
in its lack of completeness.
The andirons stand waiting for a log to poke
but the stove sits cold and lonely.
An old piece of wood rests on the hearth
and the wood box is empty.
Outside the wind is bitter, the feeder is bare
of birds, too frozen to head into the wind.
We are cozy here with furnace heat
and a big white dog to warm our feet.
– Jackie –
Welcome to Jackie's Website 
A sad but good poem; not entirely rescued from the blues, luckily, by the furnace and the big dog.