Winter Wood

Watching, 
every time my mother's foot slides in the leaves
I wince and shiver, 
remembering when those metal teeth
jumped the wood 
biting through
denim, flesh, bone.

As always, the fumes choke me 
when I move up 
to hold the log for her.

Holding my breath, 

I remember 
the time we were cutting 
high on the mountain.

I remember 
rolling a five-foot, 200-pound log 
down the hill.

I slipped (leaves, damned leaves again).
Fell flat on my belly, arms outstretched.
The log rolled up my arms 
and (instead of taking my head off) 
stopped when my face rested on its silent bark.

Pinned, I called out for my mother.

The crack of the axe 
brings me back.

My father is splitting the red oak sections 
I rolled down to him. 

The heart leaps open, 
pink meat exposed. 

It smells like life, 
life escaping into the air.



11/19/00