"She refused to be bored, chiefly because she wasn't boring." Zelda Fitzgerald

Friday, February 18, 2011

Poetry Friday: Woodpile Plans

Happy Poetry Friday everyone! The weather is so relieving lately and so lovely that I am busy spending most of my time playing in it or opening windows. That's why I'm sharing a poem I wrote earlier in the winter instead of a fresh one from today.

That said, the discussion of winter wood (my subject) is not entirely empty for me at the moment. Now that winter is starting to loose it's grip I'm finding that I am mulling over how to do it better next year. The list is long: put air conditioners in storage before the snow flies, make sure to have a bucket of sand for icy steps, arrange a better parking design, and also...buy a sizable amount of firewood and a log ring. We use our fireplace all the time in the cold months and might even use it more if weren't for the fact that we keep buying that crappy wood they sell for ridiculous sums at the grocery store. Oh for some well-seasoned stacks of hardwood!

Stealing Warmth
woodpileImage by imadoofus123 via Flickr

It is grey February and in our chilly desperation
We rob the great berm of the snowed-upon woodpile.
We have opened the smooth mound and exposed its dark heart
We carry off armloads of the fragrant cargo.
Short beams of mottled maple, split oak and tiger-streaked ash
Make us stagger, stacked chin-high in heavy, clinking bars.
Aromatic golden sawdust sifts onto all things, caches of it
Amongst the even corduroy of log-on-log
It powders us below the knee and we stamp it off our boots.
In hearty thumps, a trail of powdered evidence giving us away.
Mound to house and back again in steady, furtive rhythm.
Once we have stuffed our log-ring full and can stash no more plunder
We cease our looting and call our hoard sufficient.
We leave the depleted hill, gasping open-mouthed at the frozen night
As our band retires with much banter and dusting off of sleeves
I slyly palm a spike-spurred, copper beech nut
Some small, pocket-sized trophy of our exploits
I will finger it later, fumbling with words in my other hand
Each tiny spine stimulating the mental tumble of this
Ode to our great foray
Our very spoils illuminating the air with a triumphant amber glow

If you'd like to read more Poetry Friday participants contributions, click your way on over to Great Kid Books and enjoy!
Enhanced by Zemanta

No comments:

Post a Comment