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…
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He does. Man plays at another level…
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Amazing…each word a wondrous requirement to his perfect imagery. Talk about a master.
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So true. He tugs us along each step on his journey
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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
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Ahn yes. My Grandma (Baba) had one which evoked similar memories)
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I’m so glad you share his words. Some writers are just startling.
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They are. Sit there with my mouth open as they spin their magic. Incredible.
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I know 4 a.m. well…………
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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.
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That is an incredible talent…
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lovely. and 4 am is a magical time.
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I agree. There is no peace like 4am.
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Tug. Heartstrings.
Memories.
Grandfather’s house.
Grandfather.
Warmth. Love.
Unconditional.
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Beautiful. Thanks for sharing.
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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.
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Smiling. My lid could be on or off and I’d never scritch or scratch like this man.
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So good…so very good!
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He is!
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