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.