Email Poem

Your IP Address: 18.222.213.240

Your Email Address:

To Email Address:

Subject

Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem

My father’s timber array arrived on an 
overloaded Diamond Reo flatbed. 
It dumped oak scraps, leafless dead-woods, 
inspiring last metamorphosis to 
warming fires come winter’s weather. 

Empty, truck leaves then heaves 
into a scrubby alley 
squeezing by barely. 
With its narrow fit made 
it disappearing through a backyard gate 
into a cloud of its own making 
belched from two shaking 
upright tailpipes. 

Bark cull, coppice slats, saw food pilled 
to near roof high. This sawmill refuge awaits 
stacking sequent, once cross-sawed 
and set to a suitable size for stove fodder. 

I am father's volunteer; I am the master stacker 
of wand-wood. With my bow-saw in hand, 
I look not on labor of hours nor days, but eternities. 

In the eyes of evolution's lies I see ancient youths, 
countless fellows of ten-years-old like me 
and leap with them to the task of cave dwellers.

CAPTCHA Preview

Type the characters you see in the picture

Required