How humble this task, stacking wood. I lay
the foundation row, make the imprecise
logs imprecisely parallel. Light splays
across my shoulders, when the windows splice
sunlight and sunlight. I love the order,
nest log atop log, my actions precise.
I love the weight in wrist, arm, and shoulder.
Log and log fills space and space. Memory
emerges in the work’s every layer:
the power of survival through history,
human endurance, ancestors stacking
log and log, filling space and space. Praise trees
who gave us everything: nothing’s lacking
in your life, they teach. Stand tall, they maintain:
Weather what comes. I continue stacking.
Evening comes. Scent of maple. Hint of rain.
Such humble lessons in longevity,
to remember to honor the mundane,
the peace in boredom, the prosperity
in silence and thought, work’s satisfying
exhaustion, and night’s quiet sanctity.
