As I sat at my desk writing, gently coaxing and inviting
Prose from sorrow’s soul to paper through my hand and pen outpour,
I caught a chill I could not fend and thought the fire to attend,
So rising, going there to mend, to mend the flames that roared before,
I spoke “My love, it grows cold; I’ll mend the flames that roared before,”
To the child on the floor.
Now the child oft there played since mother, sister had been laid
To rest having caught a fever in autumn of the year before.
And I smiled to see her folly, sitting, playing with a dolly,
It fought against the melancholy always pressing at the door;
The melancholy growing there where two were left where once was four
The autumn of the year before.
It was a favorite of the older sister when the days grew colder,
Huddled with her toys and playing warm before the fire’s roar.
Then the younger took the spot to sit before the fire hot,
For Jane I’m sure, and for me not she took the spot upon the floor;
To honor Jane she took to playing warm before the fire’s roar,
Quiet on the study floor.
The household staff had thought it strange, the child did her habits change,
To leave her room and take to playing where her sister had before.
I said I did not see the harm; I liked to have her near my arm,
And that the cause of their alarm they should mention nevermore;
She bought me some small solace from the sorrow knocking at the door
Since autumn of the year before.
Spoke my daughter “Is it cold? We had not noticed, truth be told.
For me, the company does keep me warm inside your study’s door.”
I smiled “My dear you are quite sweet; to think my presence might bring heat,
To keep the chill from toes and feet as flames will dwindle more and more;
To think that your dull father might replace the warmth from fire’s roar,
Tis enough for winter’s store.”
“Papa I do not wish you pain, but saying ‘we’ I spoke for Jane;
'Tis Jane whose friendship brings me in to play upon your study floor
She says she never feels the cold since the fever loosed its hold;
When green gave way to red and gold preparing for the winter’s hoar;
When autumn’s leaves were growing old October of the year before,”
Said my daughter on the floor.
My tongue did fight to find reply, as my child I stepped by,
While busying my hands and giving new attention to my chore.
Did I somehow my daughter fail not seeing she in grief did ail
And her mind was growing frail, building an imagined lore?
Building a world of fancy as reality she did abhor,
This broken child on the floor.
“But Jane says mother’s always cold, since the fever took its hold,
That she will only come to sit when flames of fire fiercely roar.
Then she’ll come and take her chair, when fire wards off chilly air
And quietly she joins us there as she has done for years before;
She sits and tries to catch some warmth in the blazing fire’s roar
Now still ever as before.”
How my daughter’s words did prick, and flush the face and pulse to quick,
Hearing of her world of fancy formed around her on the floor.
Still I could not form a word as thought flew off like frightened bird
Vision being by tears blurred, as her speech my soul did bore;
As my daughter’s words into the wildest wish of heart did bore,
Spoken from the study floor.
Trembling now I sought to make the embers left of fire wake,
To thaw my precious daughter who was frozen in a time before.
I did not wish to make her weep and yet to wake her from her sleep,
Away with fantasy to sweep and bring her back from dreamland’s shore.
And yet I did not wish to steal the comfort of fallacious lore
From her dreamy, sunny shore.
As I got the fire blazing, I found myself at daughter gazing
When thoughts were interrupted by a shuffling down the hallway floor.
Joining to the floorboards creaking old door hinges started squeaking,
As if the answer of her speaking, inward swung the study door.
The shuffling sound, but nothing seen; the shuffling just and nothing more;
Shuffling towards the fire's roar.
I gasped but could not find the air, stumbling, reaching for my chair,
I fought to find the calm and peace my precious sanctum to restore.
Then I spied her slippers there, neatly placed beneath her chair,
As if she had with her feet bare stretched out to bask in fire’s roar;
As if my wife had again come visit me as oft before;
Oft then, but maybe oft once more.
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