Hearth

This is a night gone glimmering with rain,
When down the street your quiet windows glow,
And, almost stumbling in my eagerness,
I seek in them a solace that I know.

Your hand will lift for me the clattering latch,
And you will stir the fire’s drowsy gold
Into flame that burns up loneliness,
And drives away the shadows and the cold.

(by N. Scott Thurston)

A Foofnickian Reading

Now, friends, let’s not mistake this for just a gentle verse about rain and a cozy fire. What we’ve got here is a blueprint for how humankind survived the ice, the dark, and each other.

Imagine some long-ago ancestor, water dripping from their mammoth-hide hood, stumbling into the circle of light where fire smoldered. That’s the same scene our poet sketches—windows glowing, latch lifting, hearth stirred to life. The logs don’t just burn carbon; they burn away loneliness. That, my compatriots, is chemistry at its most soulful.

See, the hearth has always been the original microbiome incubator of community. Around it, stories fermented, meat caramelized, and trust took root. The rain outside might glimmer, the shadows may prowl, but the hearth—the literal physics of photons and the invisible warmth of companionship—drives them all away.

The poet seeks not only flame but fellowship. He knows, as every mitochondrion in his cells knows, that heat plus human presence equals survival. Those glowing windows aren’t just panes of glass with light behind them. They’re neural lighthouses whispering: Here is safety. Here is home. Here are hands to stir the coals.

And so, when the latch clicks, when the fire leaps up, the old alchemy occurs again: solitude is consumed, shadows retreat, and one soul is warmed by another.

That, dear reader, is why your ancestors clustered round the hearth—and why you still drift toward the stove when the kettle begins to hum.

That’s all I have to say, I will say no more.