chopping wood

I go out into the yard
to chop wood
for the fireplace.

the almanac says it's going
to be a cold
one.

I spend half the day with
my axe.
the logs, one by one
on the stump
split into halves,
then quarters.

bang, it goes, bang again.
the sharp blade
does its job.

there's no thought to it.
my mind is elsewhere.

what i'm chopping violently
isn't wood at all,
but other things.
the intangible thoughts
of the past webbed in
my mind.

in time I've stacked
the logs beside the house.
i'm ready for
what's coming, what's next.

let the fire burn bright.