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Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
.     The orange and gold leaves are falling, days are shortening, a little more 
everyday. 
The chill in the air and brisk wind tells us to prepare for the cold. Daddy makes 
grumbling 
children gather the firewood onto the porch from the wood shed. Brother makes us 
get 
enough for the week so we don't have to get the wood in again till the next week. 
The 
splinters are the worse part of carrying wood to the house, spending time with my 
brother, 
Robbie, is the best. Robbie is four years older than me, and much wiser, secretly he 
is my 
hero, though I would never tell him that piece of information; he would use it against 
me and 
his ego is already big enough!
    First thing each morning, we all gather around the fire after our parents get it 
burning; rooting in like hogs to the teat to get the middle spot. The middle spot gets 
heat on 
three sides, and also was the center of attention. As the flames rose and kissed our 
cheeks 
a rosy hue, it was then that we had to turn to our back side to prevent permanent, 
scorching to the face and clothes. Little times in life, such as these,
stand out to me as I get older, and make my memories sweeter. The people who 
loved me, 
not the accomplishments in my job nor my talents, warm my memories today.  
     The heat source was really important in our home, as you can see, in more ways 
than one; the heat we all seek and need for survival, but also a camaraderie 
developed 
between siblings watching the burning logs and seeking warmth. My eyes saw the 
flames, tall 
and short, red and yellow. Charcoal embers radiate the red glow, as they become 
ashes that 
are poured out on the ground, which was also a chore of the children, with much 
grumbling 
and complaining...
     Today I stand by the hearth with my new family, watching the embers turn the 
wood 
black then red and into grey ash dust. I feel the warmth and remember my childhood; 
it is a 
fond memory. The heat is needed and welcome on aching joints. The flame grows 
higher and 
becomes alive before my eyes, dancing. I remember a bush that was not consumed 
by the 
fire. This wood is being consumed slowly before my eyes. Memories are alive like the 
flames; 
memories become written stories to pass the time and keep my sweet memories 
alive in time.
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