I am sore from woodcutting.
Sawdust covers the grass.
smells like the oak I have just finished cutting.
My hands still feel the chainsaw.
My shoulders are tired.
I have stacked the wood in a pile
as high as a man, between a walnut
and a pine.
The wood settled among itself,
converging into its own plane,
to wait for winter.
To wait for me
to carry it to the house in
Woodcutting Poem copyright Wayne Jackson 1989