How gratifying,
the good work of splitting wood:
all of the muscles
in the shoulders’ globes making
their proper rotations; all
the body’s woven
fibers doing their tag-team
work from the upper arm
to lower arm, wrist, and hand.
A sort of tinder exists
as the body moves,
heating up, owning the time,
till the wood splitter’s
peak catches the exact spot
between the parallel grains.
An appreciative
crack creates the first fissure –
through rings that evolved
across time, came together
from a root, an errant seed,
fell by my driveway
where first leaves emerged, briefly
held sunsets, then let them drop
to make space for the subtle
snow’s outline. The tree nurtured
its rituals, all
those years before the splitter’s
last startling crack
and the unexpected pleasure
when the log fell to pieces.
Heather Hallberg Yanda teaches in the English Department at Alfred University, in the hills of Western New York. Her first book, Late Summer’s Origami, was published by Ashland Poetry Press in 2020. She has poems published in such journals as Third Wednesday, Poet Lore, and – most recently – Galway Review.
