The piano is the fireplace by Bren Simmers

The way it changes
the mood of a room,
like a little Marvel stove
in a Bishop poem. Feed it
fingers, pencil scratched ideas.
It scales, it purrs, roars
them all back. Not the heat
you wanted exactly, but close
enough. Someone to play
preludes while you wash
dishes or lie on the couch
after supper. To sustain,
to vibrate freely. A wood
that burns without
ever going to ash.

— from Juniper Volume 6, Issue 3