My hour of labor goes faster when mornings are dark
The oak splits cleaner in the cold
Smoke from the kitchen fire reminds me that breakfast awaits
The smell itself is almost food to me
I hurry to keep from freezing
Stand the log-piece upright on the blade-ravaged stump
And stroke and strike and hear
the crackle of the frigid, rigid branch
As grain gives way
And strand breaks from strand
I bask in my own strength
and in this dark loneliness
The stack of stovewood almost covers the back wall now
Only two feet from the eave
Each stob-end the cell of a honeycomb
I would rest if it were up to me
But dad says to keep going
He’ll tell me when we have enough.
When the mornings are brighter
One day he’ll say “no more wood”
And that will be it for the year
I’ll watch my piles dwindle
As the summer comes on
And the fires are only a memory.
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