We remember though all the firelit glowOf a great hearth's gleam and glare,And we looked for a space at each happy faceAnd the love that was written there.

With callused handsi tastedthe softness of the moonin the coldest windsi discoveredmy soul's warmest fireplacein the roughnessof his stubblethe tenderest love.

One afternoon, when I was four years old, my father came home, and he found me in the living room in front of a roaring fire, which made him very angry. Because we didn't have a fireplace.