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.