There is something in the sound
            Of an axe biting green wood
            That fills this arm of the forest
            Calling all the years and all the dead
            Here to accompany my song of fires to come
            My father hitting the same notch
            Every time patient and hard
            His father bulling an old Ford through mudholes
            Big enough to cover a cord of pine
            Mister Charlie shaping green hickory
            With a slow draw knife
            Making a handle that would last
            Until I had children of my own
            Old Andy’s long striding brogans
            Right on the heels of the Belgian
            The forgotten mill hand
            Who rolled his own in spite
            Of the empty shirt sleeve
            Shine and his boys in with a load
            Of number five ties and six cold beers
            Bobby laughing and sweating
            As we stacked bridge timbers in summer heat
            Dennis and Dell poking fun at our short pulpwood
            Telling Red to dock us for a dumbass nuisance
            All of them out of the woods now
            Even my son grown and gone leaving me
            To cut the straggling cherries and gum
            That shade the field’s edges
            Drag the brush and haul the stove lengths
            Across the creek to split and stack
            Ready to burn or give away
            But not really needed
            A reminder only of what has been lost
            And what succeeds

            

Copyright © Cy Dillon, 2002.  All Rights Reserved.