Heft and bite of ax,
thock and crack and split of oak,
my hands in their gloves
make a sliding sound on a hickory handle.
The pile grows, spilling down on itself,
firewood - my labor of love
cut and split and stacked
in preparation for fires I'll never feel.
I remember flame kissed skin,
the smoke scent in your hair
and warmth, always warmth,
deep under blankets baked by loving.
Standing in the cold, I shatter another log,
smash deep along the grain
and bury the head of my ax in the ground
pause, then bend and lift again.
And I leave a little bit of me
in each separate piece of firewood,
my gift of flame,
burnt to ash by morning, but still smoldering.
