"Chopping Wood"
Wet morning. The fall
hills have all bled
into the skin
of the oak. I'm splitting
the wood, honey-colored
and heavy.
My eyes water in the cold.
So much keeps falling toward
me. I want to hammer
this life down through
my blood til the story
comes back.
The acid in my
shoulders, my knuckles,
gets hot as fish scales,
geese calls bless me
and the fields.
Short days still high
on the river bank, I
am ready for winter,
even death.
© 2006 Andrew Dufresne
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