The Gatherers
In autumns, when we were young,
my friend and I walked hand in hand
to gather firewood on the hill.
We'd stack it by the kitchen door,
collecting it for winter nights
to stoke the fire against the chill.
But we found out along the way
the walk together made us warm.
Once the cold no longer bit,
we kept on with our firewood walks
through spring and summer, just because,
because... we liked the company.
We tasted berries that we found
and meant to carry back with us,
or looked above to see the swoops
of martins, darting shadow-knives.
The woodpile grew beside our door:
homespun obelisk, our totem
of welcome, homely shrine to Us,
our celebration of content.
In these seasons, daisies sprang
up by the porch edge. Winter seemed
historical, and gone for good:
recalled and yet impossible.
These pieces lay in rows as neat
as knobby limbs and splitted stumps
could be, as orderly as dreams,
these humble relics of the years:
The elm branch: barkless, gnarled. A storm -
came sudden, but the rain was warm -
drenched my new blouse, the price tag (oh!)
damp, limp, bleeding ink on the sleeve;
Splintered kindling: our attempts
with a splitting wedge (the first time
he'd dared to cuss in front of me -
a stumble brings a leap of trust!);
And others, I remember just
that they have long lain in the pile,
marking nameless days in years,
vague but prized, like a stranger's smile.
Our wood stock grew in the autumns
and shrank in the winters, settling
in the sunny months. On reflection,
it seems that we did much the same.
These days, the firewood stack is mine
alone to tend. I have begun
a second, next to it. I find
my walk uphill is more direct.
My shoes sink deeper in the ground.
I dawdle less and less along
the way. No splitting now; I take
windfall, and what cracks when stood on.
I feel the wind acutely cold
more often than I used to do.
The woodpile must be dwindling. But
it doesn't feel that way to me.
When a draft blows in, I take
a log from our old stack, and then
I find one from my newer pile.
I lay them crosswise on the hearth,
and watch the fire envelop them.
The smoke smells strong, a little sweet.
The embers crackle from within;
the flames shimmer like old playmates.
Love you all. 
s 
s.
