Tuesday, February 18, 2014

a firewood sonnet

Driving, I slow-rolled past the place
where a storm-felled tree had crushed 
a low stone wall and blocked the road
until they brought the chainsaws.

By the time of my sedate passage 
there was only sawdust in the ditch
and the stump, roots unclad,
half-framed in the shattered wall;

it was three feet at the cross-section, 
the red of the once secret heart wood
making the rain on it like seeping blood, 
and too many rings to count as I passed.

I drove on, remembering branches that had 
brushed the heavens which I had not seen.

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