Bringing in Firewood
The wind over the river.
The sad quena of trees.
Snow – a slow, white sigh
that muffles the garden.
The yard fills up with dark.
I am out here
looking for miracles.
A world waits to be born:
buds cuddled up,
cicadas sucking roots,
small frogs huddled in mud.
I wonder whether they dream?
Now – while pale lungs
wither and bloom
slower than snow,
slower than morning
that waits at the mouth of the river
to swallow the dark –
do eyes twitch,
seeing lush leaves,
the river ringing with water
rushing past shocks of wild roses?
The cold is incandescent,
burning my bare hands.
Clouds escape from my lungs
and rise, as if asking a question…
Will lilies spear the inertia of August?
Will the wrens come back?
Will we go on loving each other?
I am bringing in wood
while you wait by the fire –
green peppers hot in the oven
and thick mugs brimming with milk.
Snow dizzies down
in a hush of relentless joy
as after carols, or bells.
My footprints will go under.
No one will know where I stood.
But I, in the middle of summer –
when cicadas cut the heat
with the sound of saws
and frogs call over the water –
will remember the light and the wonder
of loving you, bringing in wood.
