The holy covering
The coldest nights of winter
We would huddle about the hearth
The roaring fire sparking out
Embers upon our patch work quilts
Rarely would one burn through
The many layered blanket
To drift off to a frozen dreaming
Who would stoke the fire awake?
It must have been one angry spark
That traveled up the chimney
To settle in the chink of heart pine
For in no time we stood afar huddled
Our only covering the holed quilts
All consuming save the brick culprit
Standing as a Joan of Arc immune
From the flames our lives taking.
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