POEM: Preparing For The Winter

Last night, I dreamed of wood spiders
Large as my thumb, nestled, snug deep in the firewood
Roused by the ruckus that is stacking wood
Like bricks, they stack; these stacks I build by stoking wood
To later dream of stoking fires -
I button up the withered season that yet survives.
I prepare for a time that will hold your absence,
Frozen in the palms of its very hands.
Who ever plans for the gradual diminishment that is life,
In slow, painful cooling days and nights –
And then the longer nights that devour days -
Who plans for just such things?


The firewood stares out, like a stony grave
To wait out the harsh season that will follow
While such neat and stiff-angled bundles,
Such blessẻd rugged lumber
Leans with gentle bias toward the house.

Quiet, I am free from the distractions
Of a faith in the immortality of things –
A faith that divides my silent heart
A faith with the same rock hard stare that is reserved for stacked firewood -

Come, I will build a fire made from the kindling of my heart.
I will love you in your life now and in your memory.
I will make you steaming mussels and you will teach me how to pickle
Red peppers and garlic like giant hearts afloat in white vinegar
Distorted by the magnifying glass of mason jars.


What remains in fullest bloom is how much
We loved each other -
Like firewood, stacked so upright and so tall,
That waits for the cold to come, against the sturdy warm resolve of you.