Friday, October 26, 2007


My firewood is green. It will not light,
As I sit here feeding it newspapers,
Desperate to start a fire in my woodstove
On this chilly October morning;
All it does is sputter and smoke,
So I go outside for more kindling.

I gather fallen sticks in the woods,
They’ve been here for years,
Shed from the trees like bad dreams,
They snap when I bend them, like
Breaking old bones.

I push the kindling into the stove,
One stick at a time, shred more
Newspaper, light a match.
Now a flame, the heat of experience,
Burns bright and warm.


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