Seasoned Wood

Working back and forth across the ground  
dragging logs to piles  
leaving them lay for a season, then  
splitting the logs, and laying them out. 


By a river he lived  
for thirtyseven years  
cutting the meadow with a scythe  
in the hot June sun.

Seasoning the land with his own sweat  
of work.  
Laying logs aside, for winter.  
Bucking and splitting, tucking things in.

Then he died.  
Everything came back in.  
The river flooded  
and washed it clean.


Far below where they were cut  
seasoned logs roll ashore.  
I slice off an end, with a sharp knife.

Light a fire, burns salt blue.  
Roast an apple, eat it hot.  
Toss the core       into the flames.

Heating and eating and resting  
along where things come down to  
from far away.  
Seasoning myself with sand.  
Thinking of it all, laying with it.  

Staring at the sky, and wondering  
how the work of becoming something   
all comes           to a point          then disperses  
breaks away  
and is gone.