FIREWOOD

There is something in the sound
Of an axe biting green wood
That fills this arm of the forest
Calling all the years and all the dead
Here to accompany my song of fires to come
My father hitting the same notch
Every time patient and hard
His father bulling an old Ford through mudholes
Big enough to cover a cord of pine
Mister Charlie shaping green hickory
With a slow draw knife
Making a handle that would last
Until I had children of my own
Old Andy’s long striding brogans
Right on the heels of the Belgian
The forgotten mill hand
Who rolled his own in spite
Of the empty shirt sleeve
Shine and his boys in with a load
Of number five ties and six cold beers
Bobby laughing and sweating
As we stacked bridge timbers in summer heat
Dennis and Dell poking fun at our short pulpwood
Telling Red to dock us for a dumbass nuisance
All of them out of the woods now
Even my son grown and gone leaving me
To cut the straggling cherries and gum
That shade the field’s edges
Drag the brush and haul the stove lengths
Across the creek to split and stack
Ready to burn or give away
But not really needed
A reminder only of what has been lost
And what succeeds

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