Читать книгу No Gathering In of this Incense - Mark Rhoads - Страница 13

In June we began filling the woodshed

with fir taken from the forest

that surrounded us,

chunked, carried

to the pile outside the shed

where Dad

spent days splitting rounds

with the big double-edged axe

he’d bought in Newport.

This was his wordless duty:

the hefting of the blade,

the swing over his head,

left hand sliding down

to join his right

at the end of the handle,

arms extended, the blade

gaining speed,

driving through the wood,

throwing the sundered pieces

into piles on either side,

the blade sticking

in the chopping block;

his mind working

out the details

of some plan

to repair the old Ford truck

or build a roost

for the chickens;

each fracture

underscoring some figure,

crossing out another,

throwing a circle around

a great idea.

I worked quietly

alongside him, loaded up

arms full of pine slabs,

took them into the shed

and stacked them

floor to ceiling,

ten rows deep.