First Heat

A shudder, then a groan,

that old iron heart began to moan.

The first true chill of autumn air,

and heat begins to fill the stair.

Chipped paint on every fin,

dust in the grooves, a quiet din.

It wakes me up before the clock,

with its familiar, steady knock.

Not pretty, no, but still it throws

what comfort from its belly grows.

A trusted thing, for all its age,

that turns a cold room to a warmer stage.