Bill Brown
February 2003

Worship


This morning I open the wood stove
and hear something escape the chimney.
Maybe the ghost of last May,
a month too warm for burning,
when we built a roaring fire
and left the doors open.
There's a spirit in a stove.
When I was twenty, I scoffed
at myths like the hearth god.
At fifty I'll worship any ritual
born from simple human need,
god of morning coffee and Sunday papers;
god of lazy love-making, wine and old books;
god of tilling, planting, and harvesting.
I won't recognize the god of television,
videos, or cellular phones,
but the god of old tractors,
hand-made tools, raking leaves,
and sweeping the porch.
Praise be to the god of sheets billowing
like sails in the sun and the dank god
of storm cellars, spidery and safe.
I kneel willingly to the god
of stirring soup and kneading bread,
to all gods of needful work.
So this morning after hearing
the stove god haunt the chimney,
I kindle the first fall fire
to all the gods of necessity
who keep us fed and warm,
and to the gods of little pleasures
who help us to be kind.

The Gods of Little Pleasures, The Sow’s Ear Press, 2001.