FIREWOOD

456DA4C1-C378-4C88-BAB5-E2BB493D9918Chainsaws are not the instrument of love
its noise does not a sonnet make, and yet
’twas earnest hearts that split the fir to chunks
a loving zip that made a cord of trunks

The sounds of the tools of worker bees
hastens through boughs of autumn trees
a buzz that carries a bold force through wood
as much as through their bones and blood

So cutting to the facts of things: the sweat
and dust amidst the sun and fumes, the threat
of falling discs of log and muscles tense
screaming saw and skin, the pungent scents

No easy piles of gold are these, but stacks
and acts of axes from those heaving backs—
such is the controlled violence of the men
cleaving trees that will warm a winter den

All the freedom’s found in bodies roving
past the paths and beyond fences roaming
Chainsaws are not the instrument of love
its noise does not a sonnet make, and yet…
————————————————
(Dedicated my buddy Aaron and Robert Frost. Yes I’m smelling the freshly cut (already fallen) fir, so foresty sweet.)A526EB86-D3BC-4C1D-AE06-89DC299EC39D

 

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