My chain saw has reduced the once graceful birch to a scatter of odd shaped pieces spread across the lawn. I gather barrow after barrow, set them on the chopping block and ply the axe. On the largest round, I trace the rings back to the year we moved in, the year each daughter left, and the year of the divorce. The ring at the edge marks my mother’s death.
the incinerator door
This winter friends will join me for wine and poetry by a warming fire and I’ll feed the white bark wood, piece-by-piece into the fire- place.
Tonight, it’s just me.