Carry Wood, Melt Snow

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

The logs have been cut to just

the right size to fit,

length wise,

into the wood stove.

I prefer the burn of oak –

it is clean and hot.

You don’t need much.

But it’s true that other trees

fall in the disheveled woods:

Hickories and poplars

for the most part.

At field edge:

red cedars and black locusts.

And there is my grove

of beloved black walnuts.

Losing one of them is like

a gasp,

a heart break,

a prayer that this is the last.

It’s not. Not yet.

I’m not to be spared.

So trees that once spoke in

the language of all things

that sway,

burn at my hand.

I don’t take this lightly.

I ask permission.

I say thank you.

I listen for their stories

when they spit and whistle,

and the cast iron pings.

Occasionally, I’ll tell their stories

to someone else.

Like I am, now.

In this poem.

But I don’t want to remark

just about

the trees,

Because when the snow storm

knocks the power out for days,

I must also talk of snow

and how it melts in old skillets

upon the wood stove,

where a remembered forest

is burning.

Sometimes it boils

its own narration.

Fire and water.

Somehow nature always finds

a way to urge us to bring

the elements

into balance.

“Come back to the basics,”

She says.

Simple.

I do this for hours:

Carry wood.

Melt snow.

Carry wood.

Melt snow.

And I realize that I’ve forgotten

everything that seemed

worth a thousand revisted thoughts

before the lights went out.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

From "Winter: Reflections by Snowlight"