The Wood for the Fire
by John Grey
The felling, the chopping,
the gathering has all been done.
The wood’s stacked up
at the back of the house.
It’s dampened by rain.
It’s dried out by the sun.
It’s chilled to the bone,
swollen by the heat.
It’s privy to the peculiarities
of this northern weather.
On a fall day,
the trees, the pastel colors
of a grandmother’s dressing gown,
the wood feels the touch of one leaf
then another, then a cluster of
of these dying beauties,
until it’s buried in debris.
When the winds start
blowing in from Canada,
it’s hauled into the house,
an armful at a time,
dropped down by the hearth,
ready for the match,
the bits of paper, kindling,
the tools of the fire-starter’s trade.
Eventually, the wood burns,
splits its fate between
smoke up the chimney
and ashes in the grate,
all in the name
of a house’s abiding warmth.
Spring arrives.
The axes are sharpened.
Soon it’s time for felling, chopping,
gathering, stacking.
A year of a family
has ten thousand story tellers.
This time it is the wood’s turn.
*
John Grey is an Australian born poet and US resident since the late seventies. He works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Xavier Review, White Wall Review and Writer’s Bloc with work upcoming in Poem, Prism International and the Cider Press Review.
photo by bildungsr0man
