The Old Cast Iron Stove (poem)


The old cast iron stove, she stands stoic in the corner.

Quiet and waiting, she watches.

Cream and green porcelain, charred inside, rust building.

So very old. Still functional. Not used.

Her history, erased.  Not recorded.

How is that?

Round Oak.  Old oil canisters.  Charred wicks.

A gas valve at the back, but brick for wood heat inside.

What’s your heat source? we ask ourselves.  Perplexed.

Old scratches on a surface still solid.

Cast iron.

Who are you?  we wonder. How well you’ve aged.

Who are those you’ve heated and fed with your heat?

What heat even? Multiple? Dual or tri-heat?

(That would be brilliant, like most things of yester-year were.)

Your silence is almost haunting, picturesque and eloquent.

Telling a story yet silent in doing it all the while.

Billowing warmth has flooded this old farm house, all by this iconic mystery before me.

Round Oak, a furnace company, 1871.

Gone now. No trace of your Serial A207 number.

No history a global google search can find.

No catalogue to date you, tell your story or explain your place.

Just a stoic porcelain cast iron beauty, still standing in the corner.

Waiting, watching, recording….another family, another time, another story.

The story this time, is mine.

~ Lori Davis, The Poet Farmer



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