A long tube points up to the sky
and smoke like cotton wool ascending
passes the chimney, rises high,
a bundled strand somehow unending.
Far under it there must be fire
that burns producing useful heat,
thereby making the substance dryer
because the water does retreat.
Steam is what’s left and, of course, ashes,
crumbled in a tiny heap.
The substance that the plants’ life stashes
offers us warmth in winter’s sleep.
