Stoke

Stoke

In the hearth’s low glow, I kneel to feed the flame,
With dry kindling and a whisper of coal,
Each breath a bellows, each gesture a claim
That warmth will rise, relentless, to console.

The embers sigh, a rust‑red chorus,
Sparks like shy fireflies take flight,
Dancing upward in a quiet chorus,
Painting the night with amber light.

Stoke is more than just a verb,
It is the rhythm of hands that tend,
A quiet promise, a steady verb,
That even coldest nights will bend.

So let the fire breathe, let it grow,
In every spark a story told,
Of hearths that warm the hearts we know,
And hands that never lose their hold.