it stands stoic in the field politely (in the way all southern chimneys are raised) requesting a match, the heat of a flame to crackle the kindling it still cradles. only smoke chugging into the sky will return the stories told, the meals cooked over it, the hands scuffed together to help the thaw along. it doesn’t know the structure is gone, its owners long buried on the hill above. it needs only a bit of heat to recall its venerable but singular purpose. i want to give it life, but i only take its picture. its face is a gift to me. i take without giving.

Alone In West Virginia

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