For two years the oak
loomed, leafless.
We had aged
together, but somehow
I survived the drought
and ice storms, the
regret and wilt,
the explosions within,
and it did not.

I do not know
the rituals of trees,
how they mourn
a passing, or if
the sighs I hear
betray only my own
frailties, but even
as I fuel the saw and
tighten the chain,
I look carefully
for new growth.

chain saw

“Firewood” is included in my forthcoming chapbook, From Every Moment a Second, available for pre-publication order (shipping in October) at Finishing Line Press.

53 thoughts on “Firewood

  1. Maybe they mourn like elephants, deeply, cyclically. Returning to the same spot yearly. Silent contemplations; releasing leaves to accompany them on their journey… Your words stimulate the synapsis. Great poem!

    Liked by 2 people

  2. I feel this one, Bob. Just a month or so ago, I noticed the towering SIberian elm that has been dead for two years (multiple dessicated trunks chainsawed last summer) seems to be sending up new growth from her roots. It’s all I can do to resist throwing a baby shower..

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Hi! Great poem! I noticed you have a “like” button on your email notifications. Most people don’t seem to, and I don’t…and I don’t know how to phrase the question, so no luck searching so far. Is it one of the plug-ins?

    Liked by 1 person

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