The trees that took in the summer light, give it back in winter’s hearth. On those coldest of days how the sunny flames leap. To the whoosh of a sledding wind, her crackles are as a sparkly giggle, merry and bright. Sitting at the hearth from daylight into the star speckled hours, is perhaps my favourite thing to do. Add a good chat, a book and a hot chocolate or two and it’s the rest I need once the day’s work is done.
The hearth of my soul converts hope to flame as easily as that of my home converts wood to warm amber glow.
The hearth is ever the ashes and phoenix too, for as the Olympic flame, it is always dancing in our kitchen.
The hearth is the heart of our kitchen, ever-giving of warmth and light into the core of our family.
In soft hearth-light, I feel my pulse become an ever steadier beat, encouraging my inner lyrics toward soulful and loving words.
Before the hearth flames were large grey stones, the kind with a tinge of green. Tiger imagined the moss still in there, becoming one with the rock. As the warm hues of the evening sky spread, calling the stars for an encore, she would see the warm red glows, and oranges that flickered over them. It was as if, even as she awaited a new dawn, the essence of a rainbow remained. There was something about it that soothed her as much as warm cocoa.
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