Читать книгу Planted by the Signs - Misty Skaggs - Страница 15

Stacking Firewood

Sticks of seasoned oak

smack the bottom of my wagon

as I whittle away at the woodpile.

Bend and heave, grunt and let fly.

I suck down the coming snow

and fill my lungs so deep it stings.

I find my rhythm,

sweating steam in the cold sunshine.

Bend and heave, grunt and let fly.

I lose it again when I spot a patch

of purple moss worthy of a poem

and take it as a sign,

reward for hard work

turned to smoke.