hearth ovenbird This is a promise I can make: if I wake to the fire gone cold in the hearth, I will sweep the ash from the grate and open the flue, and gather kindling shed by dreams. I will sharpen my axe on the whetstone of your words, carry logs hewn from my own heartwood, and set them ablaze with the flints of my eyes. I will tend the fragile flame with my breath and wait in the circle of its light for you to come home. 260425 what's it to you? who go blather from