Stacking Wood

Afternoons, after the day’s
flame burns down to ash
and wind, after setting
the gardens to rest as the sun
narrows its angle, its flight
equaling night, this month
once swollen with wagonloads
of mown hay, crisping light
now half-shadowed
by the eleventh.
I tackle the woodpile,
mound drying since early spring,
fire-lengths of maple, ash, birch,
one thick chunk,
that’s all it takes to start,
that’s all my arms can hold.
The first row on pallets for airflow,
coarse, split, no two wedges
the same, but fitted
between two rock maples,
bookends against the drop of light
and months ahead when
it feels like it’s all
coming down…

from After Effects, available to order through Finishing Line Press, Sept. 2018
full poem published in Vermont Magazine, spring 2017