Something about woodpiles
reminds me of purgatory—
the first logs stacked should be
the guiltiest as they must bear
the weight of sin that grows
with every new log thrown
on top and they must suffer
longest before the fires we light
this winter in our woodstove
finally deliver them. So it was
with some regret that I placed
on the bottom of a rising cord
of firewood a warm length
of yellow birch with its bark
peeling back like paper
dipped in sunshine and I put
on hold that part of myself
that wanted to reach out
and accept this gift wrapped
in all those decades of nature’s
radiance but a long day
of repetitive stacking had put
my will to sleep and it was not
prepared to rescue the moment
from the motion as I kept
on working, burying the birch
in a dark underworld of wood
and then covering the pile
with a fraying tarp made of
vinyl and troubled thoughts.