Warm
Apple, poplar, ash,
Cherry, red maple,
Pine, basswood, oak,
These are the woods
That we sawed today,
In two hours of thinning,
Selecting, we made a cord —
Trampled branches on snow
Worked without words.
Simple thoughts, like picking
Up these sticks — back and
Forth in the mind — until we
Stop to rest together against
The pile, brushing off woodchips,
Shedding hats and gloves,
And because we kiss, I warm
My hands beneath your blouse.
First Snow As I Split Wood
Thin snow falling into
Valley fog, quiets everything,
No bird call, nothing flying.
The splitting wedge and hammer
Echo over the pasture
While the flakes open bigger
For no reason other than snow.
And I straighten my sweaty back
To watch this world, lend a tongue
And taste it melt.
Scout
Here you are again
Late at night
Snow falling in the valley
Life on snowshoes
Hardly faraway from home
In fact, isn’t that the glow
Of the kitchen lamp
Lighting through the trees
I’ve spend the better part
Of darkness stamping in
A mile wide circle enjoying
The measure of going nowhere
Stand with me
Waste some time
Everything you’ve always wanted
Is all around you.
_________________
Bob Arnold
Where Rivers Meet
Mad River Press
Susan photograph by Bob Arnold , 2016
