The Wood Pile
When all seems coal,
stir the ashes & a small plume
drifts toward the neighbor’s
through a chimney
opened in the igloo
formed when you pile
the snow higher
atop the cinders
glowing from the last
stirred embers
to staunch the fire —
the black, the gray,
the choking smoke
from the pyre,
tall as you are,
as you pile more wood
with fury, you squint to ward off
the heat of the inferno
as you carry the bundles
& place them, like small dogs
into the flames, you light
first from kindling, & paper,
& with each bundle,
your lower back burns
from the load,
the load of logs you saw
& clip, bundle-sized,
your whole back burns
as, faced with your mounds of wood,
you withhold tears
the only way you know how,
with saw in hand,
with your brawn.
Carla Schwartz |