Jigsaw

This creaky old wooden house
This run down old porch
This rickety deck
An ancient cast-iron stove sits firmly upon it
Covered in dust
A dermis of dust which lays over it evenly
A spewing of soot which cascades downward from the mouth of this iron beast
This cavernous maw which leads to a belly of blackness
A cauldron of cold coal that once burned brightly

The stepping of shoes rhythmically echoes eternal energy into the opening
The stove sits, door open and gaping
Seemingly leaning toward its fore
Hinting hunger and petrified anguish
Back into the black, a lone stone is waiting
A glimmering crag with not one ray of light to reflect
It once shone brightly by the frightening fire within the belly
Now stillness is its beauty

This still scene of solitude
This exiled conglomeration of matter
This lone puzzle piece of existence
Is it dead or waiting?
Is it alive or patient?
The warping wooden structure bends around it
Framing its state, however defined
This stove, its contents, its immediate surroundings
All at rest and seemingly static
Though change creeps and distorts
And elements simplify
Structures degrade
This portrait is alive

No doubt, an onlooker would relate neglect
But time neglects nothing and aging is action
The sky above is empty all the way
But birds fly through it