where we find the tree.
This is how we stand
when we chainsaw the tree from its stump.
This is the stroke that limbs the timber.
This is how we stand
when we chainsaw the logs.
This is the stroke that splits
the oak of affection,
variously and always.
This is the cord-wood we
bequeath to our children.
This is the furnace in the belly of love
where we heap the kindling.
This is how fire comes knocking,
selling bibles door-to-door.
This is how fire
moans in the cellar
like a wounded angel
who visits for a day
and stays on
blowing
hot breath through organ pipes.
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