I WALK AND I TALK TO MYSELF
Most every day in the fall, and the same in winter and muddy spring
I tramp our woodlot path with canvas satchels and bring home
From my hike two full satchels filled with new cut firewood
We have plenty of dry firewood back at home
In fact 22 cords at last count
Stacked around the dooryard and in the big woodshed
It isn't more wood we need — it's taking the hike, often twice a day
And tending to the day, fetching fuel to keep a house warm
Which makes one know how one keeps a house warm, one's self warm
The woods are down with leaves
It takes pulling to climb the hills
The satchels are dirty and old
A few days ago I dropped a dead and very sound white ash tree
Hurricane Sandy had taken down half the tree, and I finished the job
Bucked and split on site, on a side hill, my companion and I tossed
The split logs down the hill twice and stacked the wood by our path
Each day as we pass we bring our satchels and fill up —
This work makes me think of dozens of other things instead of wood
While holding wood I think of a mother, a sister gone, what a son is doing
How ill friends are faring, children dying in Gaza
When will it snow?
I think of those others who have been very troubling, and it's increasing
Twenty years ago there were none of these same troubles
Twenty, thirty, forty years ago there was this path
[ BA ]
Thanksgiving
