Wood Smoke

Smoke rises up my neighbor’s chimney, lingering

there, indicating heat and warmth and protection

against freezing pipes in the winters’ bitter cold.

He heats with wood, laying in cord upon cord

of stove lengths split for better burning, stored

in his wood shed, daily trips out and back in to keep

the wood box filled by the stove, a cozy place,

and to empty the ash from the ash bucket.

 

Me? My wood stove lies cold in the other building,

the “summer home” across the yard, down by the water’s edge,

camp shut up when the ground begins to freeze solid

and a wood fire is just too much trouble, the floors too cold

mornings for the bottoms of my feet, and we move across

to the “winter home,” heat from forced air and natural gas,

timed to come on when the temperatures drop, bringing

the house to room temps by 6 am and I rise from my bed.

 

But my neighbor, neighborly, shares his smoke when the winds

drift in from the east through the woods to my place,

the smell of wood burning, pungent and sharp, acrid,

but most comforting in its memories of wood fires past:

- camp fires and smores, the smoke following us around

the fire pit, camp songs sung and harmonized, out of tune,

but no one minded, and gazing in silence we shared old times

remembered, the good old days; - and bon fires burning on a winter hill,

warmth after a long toboggan run down and out across the swamps

and the long climb back up, caked in snow, our toes and fingers

cold in wet mittens and woolen socks, caps and scarves,

our laughter ringing out of the darkness, holding each other,

and hot dogs skewered for roasting before the next run

on a moonlit night; - and a small fire lit on a skating pond,

cleared, and, holding hands, the two of us glide around

and around, oblivious to the others oblivious to us,

the sound of blades on ice, soft, a love song sung of promises

made and kisses stolen, tight hugs between two bodies

kept warm together, and safe, on a winter’s night.

 

Our lives are kindled by the wood fires we share,

warming us then and still in the heat and smoke of memories

made, memories carried now on a winter wind drifting in

from the east, from my neighbor, smoke rising up and lingering. 

At Home in Winter's Half-light

At home in winter’s half-light, all day,

a welcome respite for what’s to come, storm

clouds building on the horizon, blue-gray covering

the sky, altostratus clouds, the weather map calls them,

snow clouds promising snow; the weatherman

confirms for me that it will come, lots of it, this first storm,

today but a precursor to tomorrow and a long day of shoveling,

clearing the yard, keeping the driveway open, “just in case” we need

to get out, a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk, toilet

paper, “god forbid” (we should run out!) or perhaps,

worse, keeping it open “just in case” we need an ambulance,

in bound, an emergency arising, overworking at shoveling,

overdoing and needing assistance, 9-1-1 on the line assuring us

help is coming, the distant wail of a siren making its way

through falling snow. And at the end of tomorrow, surviving, I’ll be

worn out, muscles sore and aching, back tight and bending forward,

slow to straighten, slow to enjoy a quiet evening’s reward, a glass

of wine and a log on the fire. So today, all day, in the winter half-light,

I’m sitting here by the western window, snow-clouds forming

and a slight breeze gaining strength, dry leaves blown or clinging

tightly to a naked branch hanging bare, anticipation of something

coming this way, something “wicked,” sitting here rocking, a mug

of coffee to warm me, watching this little corner of the world prepare itself

for change, a softening of the cold horizon, the bare trees and ambered

grass gone dormant, a winter sleep under a covering of snow. But today,

I can dream of the peace of winter, the beauty of snow and ice, glistening,

for tomorrow, the snow’s fierce arrival will remind me of winter’s

harsh reality and the winter work ahead, keeping ahead of the falling snow. 

Bent Nails

Parts of an old barn and an old chicken coop,

bits and pieces of anything we could find

and haul away to the near woods, a broken wheel

and a wooden crate, even the rusted bed of a pickup truck

long removed and dumped here, but it was still sturdy,

not that it mattered really, for today we are building

a fort from which to defend ourselves, the five of us

boys from around the old farm neighborhood, once a grand

homestead and dairy barn, now gone to rot and ruin and a mecca

for young boys in need of building material, bits and pieces,

parts of anything we could find. So we dragged it all

across the yard and over the field, overgrown and littered,

innumerable trips, pushing and pulling, dragging and lugging

what we could, so many trips out and back until our

fortress began to take shape, sturdy walls propped up

and lashed together with bailing wire, strands of rotted rope

knotted many times, old bent nails pounded somewhat straight,

and an old barn door reinforced to keep it shut fast against those

who, foolishly, might attack, laying siege to this our fort, our stronghold.

It took us days of hauling and building and reinforcing, searching

and finding more to use, just to get it right, right down to the secret

door in the back for a quick escape in time of need. And in as many days

of building, we moved on, back to school or a family vacation or some

other youthful adventure calling us away, and from our minds and lives,

the fort was abandoned, over-taken, perhaps, and we fled away out

the secret door to safety. Except Timmy, Tim, today Timothy,

Lord of the Castle, the King who returned day after day to rule the fort

by himself, he alone to maintain its battlements, raise its standard high

and lower it when he left, safely stowing it in an old crate

until he disappeared one day, he and his family and the U-Haul trailer

carrying their sparse possessions, all they owned;

he never told us, never said good-bye, and we never saw him again,

not even a postcard to say he was gone, and this day returning here,

we wonder, where did he go? Whom did he become?

 

Now there are three of us left to remember: John missing in Vietnam,

never came home, not even a box in a deep-dug grave; George came

safely home, but he is scarred, not the same anymore; Eddy’s

a big success in some big city, a high roller, divorced, again, yet happy,

his hands wrapped around a whiskey bottle; and me, winded and a nagging

cough I can’t shake from too many years of nicotine, an old habit, comforting.

We paused frequently in our climb, this group of old men, crawling

through brush and briar grown up across the yard, over the field

to where the fort had once been, no reason to go, just to go back, to remember,

to quell our wondering, our curiosity, and to verify the stories we told

about part of a barn and an old chicken coop, our fortress, that part of our lives

when we were ten years old and all we had, all that mattered anymore,

was each other, a now tattered standard stowed away, deep in a broken box

buried under a pile of rubble, bits and pieces, and the remains of an old

fort remaining fresh in our memories, that and the stories that we’ve told

all these years gone by, our lives held together by bailing wire, rotted rope

knotted many times, and the bent nails we pounded straight.

An Encounter

Behind the night’s darkness, they stay hidden,

hiding beyond the circle of the headlamp I wear

to guide us safely down the road, the dogs and I,

unaware they are even there, whatever wild

life they may be, lurking there, watching us pass.

But the dogs can sense them, and alerted, know something is

there, hearing their movements, smelling their musky scent,

stopping as they have to sniff, to listen, to gaze into

the darkness, marking this spot as theirs. And as I

wait for them, staring myself into that same darkness,

the circle of my headlamp lifted from the path,

surveying, now, the wilds beyond, and thus illuminated,

I can see their yellow eyes glowing, their yellow eyes

but two small lights in the darkness, body-less they seem,

and noting our intrusion – a warning? – they tolerate our presence,

yet will us to move on; no words are spoken, no grunts

or growls, unafraid, and at this moment, a connection

is exchanged in the wilderness of these woods, in the wildness

of our own lives. I tug the dogs’ leashes, and we resume our steps,

moving away, made richer, perhaps, by stopping, richer

by those two yellow eyes watching us from the darkness,

yellow eyes taken into our circle of light, unafraid.