Tending

Seasoned wood split, maul and axe,
dry cedar smell of summer—
sweat now, rolling down your back, gathering
under your breasts and behind your ears
so that tomorrow you do not freeze.

Splinters lodge in palms, in elbows,
dust streaks the forehead, runs dark.
In the bed of the truck, the cord rises:
July stacked against January.

Neither grasshopper nor ant but
something unnecessarily complex.
Sense enough to load the wood,
sense enough to rest partway;
warm beer from the cab,
chilled watermelon from the cooler—
then into the stream, cedar dust and
labor’s grime given to the fish.

The heat of summer captured
in cellulose and sap, awaiting
sulfur, glass, potassium chlorate,
bound in adhesive, unlatched by friction
when the earth has tilted away,
when the birdsong has faded,
when blue shadows cling to the splitting round
and the fenceposts become ghosts.

In the iron sides
July catches; cedar to start,
oak for the long burn.
Heat soaked to bone;
drying what salty wet remains.
Hope alone
is not enough.