Every time Wolf walked upon the line,
He’d touch the French Stove
With his fingertips.
As he dragged his fingertips
Across the hot metal,
The heat burned through his skin
To warm his soul.
It reminded him of his grandmother
Of the mornings he’d sit at the table,
watching her cook,
And listen to the pans
clanked on the hot metal of the stove,
And she’d tell him stories,
Of the past, and her imagined future.
And he wondered,
Why every emotion costs so much.?
Smyon-Pa 