Returning to Earth

Nov 23 2012

We stacked the wood

in early fall.

Our work gloves

were too thin for the cold,

flimsy coats

no comfort.

We were caught off guard

by early dusk,

how seasons quickly shift.

As unnerving sun, stingy with heat

strobed through the trees,

enmeshing us

in long arthritic fingers.

Still creatures of summer

we were thin-blooded

reckless with light.

Now, the garage is redolent of birch,

the spicy earthy scent

of seasoned wood.

And surprisingly warm,

ever so slowly

decomposing.

In the fullness of time

leaving only dry rot,

light as balsa

crumbling, soft.

Like any dead body

returning to earth.

Wood locks into place,

stacks naturally

easily bears the weight.

And when dry

makes a high hollow sound,

tapping lightly

on the concrete floor.

Piled tall as a man

I look on smugly,

a conscientious ant

a good provider.

The growing season

is short, intense

this far north.

When decades of sun

were captured, and stored.

The patient majesty of trees,

we spend all our lives

and barely notice.

Light, and warmth

I will squander

in a single hard winter.

Burn through

my tidy stack.

Return the ash to soil.