Cold stove of 4:00 a.m., black iron, the lids in place on everyone but me, and down the chimney, through the damper’s pinch, the distant hoo-hoo-hooing of an owl. And soon, among the sticks of kindling in the box of words, the mouselike scritching of my pen.
~ Ted Kooser, February. The Wheeling Year: A Poet’s Field Book
Photo Credit: The Wild Free Spirit
A chill passed over me as I read this description–I could feel the solitude in my core. The man nails it every time…
He does. Man plays at another level…
Amazing…each word a wondrous requirement to his perfect imagery. Talk about a master.
So true. He tugs us along each step on his journey
Just the picture evokes memories of my Mom’s former stove — it radiated heat and there was a zone you could be in – just enough to be warm, not too close to be scorched! I think I heard the owl just now … MJ
Ahn yes. My Grandma (Baba) had one which evoked similar memories)
I’m so glad you share his words. Some writers are just startling.
They are. Sit there with my mouth open as they spin their magic. Incredible.
I know 4 a.m. well…………
When I was very young, my mom cooked on a wooden stove. I’ve never figured out how she managed to bake without burning the pies and cakes etc. Her cooking was wonderful.
That is an incredible talent…
lovely. and 4 am is a magical time.
I agree. There is no peace like 4am.
Tug. Heartstrings.
Memories.
Grandfather’s house.
Grandfather.
Warmth. Love.
Unconditional.
Beautiful. Thanks for sharing.
His writing is masterful. Maybe, one day, I could take the lid off at 4 a.m. to experience the mouselike scritching of my pen.
Smiling. My lid could be on or off and I’d never scritch or scratch like this man.
So good…so very good!
He is!