When the Heater Sings

The heater coughs to life again, a steady metal sigh,

Its breath rolls out in gentle waves, like warmth that dares not die.

Pipes rattle low, then settle down, their rhythm soft and deep,

A lullaby of rust and hum to guide the house to sleep.

The windows glaze with silver frost, delicate lace against the pane,

While candlelight in pools of gold repeats its sweet refrain.

A kettle hums, then bursts to song—its whistle pure and clear,

The scent of cocoa, cinnamon, and clove begins to steer.

Wool blankets scratch in loving ways, their weight a soft embrace,

While drifting steam and buttered bread perfume the shadowed space.

Footsteps creak across warm wood, the air is thick with peace,

Outside, the world is crystallized, yet here, the storms all cease.

The ticking clock, the soft lamplight, the pages turned in time,

Compose a hymn of quiet joys, of simple, small, sublime.

The city hums beyond the glass, but distant, faint, and dim—

Inside, the heart grows louder still, as dusk sings winter’s hymn.