Keep Yourself Warm
Jan 14 2010


A cord of wood
split, stacked
in a tightly packed rectangle,
sides flushed plumb.
So a man stands back
sweat freezing, breathing fast,
admiring his handiwork.
Tangible wealth
hard labour banked,
as substantial as gold under the mattress
winter fat.

A scent you’d think they’d package,
balsam fir
spruce and spice and earth.
And heat, barely discernable
simmering at its core,
as the wood
slowly slowly decomposes
— bacteria, eking out a life.
‘Til it becomes as light as balsa,
dry rot
lousy fuel.

2 years to season, at least.
Too green, it makes a dull heavy thud.
Well-dried, it has a hard ringing crispness,
splits true, no resistance,
burns clean
and hot.

In a long cold winter
the wood pile relentlessly shrinks,
leaving bark, and splinters
— like growing old,
imperceptible
until you notice.
You wonder if you’ll make it ‘til spring,
or have to lean on the neighbours
plug in the baseboards
burn the stuff still green.

Or keep yourself warm
cocooned in blankets and fleece and comforters
for a day, a week, a month,
spooning with someone you love.