Firewood
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.
“Firewood” is included in my chapbook, From Every Moment a Second.
O at the Edges 
This to me felt freeing after reading. We don’t know what life holds but everyday is new. Everything is a mystery because it’s beautiful. 🙏☀️💜
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Thanks very much! And sometimes we’re pleasantly surprised.
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This was beautiful
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Thank you very much!
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Love this both metaphorically and literally, Bob. I, too, am reluctant to concede a tree’s death, and so continue to look for signs of life — which may, indeed, appear long after apparent demise. We can only hope the same is true of us.
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I’ve seen a few remarkable turn-arounds, and remain optimistic (though perhaps not realistic).
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Especially beautiful.
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Thanks very much, Sarah!
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Life for tree or human is a series of confrontations with circumstance and environment … a mystery what is survived, what proves fuel for growth, what relevance lingers beyond life …
This is one of my favorite Okaji poems – reading it again today I’m chuckling at my reluctance to cut down the very dead (severed from its roots a few years back) hackberry protruding 2+ feet above the 7-ft honeysuckle-laden chain-link fence. On one hand, that hackberry is an eye-sore to be PhotoShopped out of pics of the honeysuckle; on the other hand, birds of all sorts love pausing on the forked protrusion, perfect perch for a yard-wide scan. Just yesterday I stared at it again … considered getting the stepladder and pruning … didn’t.
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Dead trees have their own places in my heart. Some I’ve left standing, when they’ve posed no threat. They hold a special beauty.
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