Sawdust swirls around us
Like January snow
As the chain snarls
Its way through
Blow-down pine
The muffler’s hot breath
Melts a golden bead of sap
That drips onto the singing
Blade
That chews through
Decades.
Rings mark the swings
Of seasons
Cutting reveals
Years
Infused with memory
Running backwards
The night on a Mexican bus
When I took your hand.
Through the year I found you
And loved you on this
Mountain
Moon, silken thighs
A lion wailed below us
In the canyon.
When we cut the pieces
To fireplace size
You hold the squirrely
Log by broken branch pegs
Like hands on a clock
Locked in place
The second hand
Pauses at noon
Freezes there in memory
Your hands are small in my gloves
Inches from the hungry teeth
As they devour again and again
The clock resumes
Your eyes still bright
Set in wrinkles
Soon in winter the
Years will rise up the chimney
Set free by the dutiful wind.
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