Firewood

                  Can’t distinguish 

                  gray wash of lake

                  darker than air 

                  or darker than water, darker

                  than gray wash
                  itself

                  Here it is Monday, brings

                  with it always this time of day

                  thoughts of disturbance

                  punching home 

                  Autumn is wet,

                  wetter than always.
                  Dark wet leaves stick

                  with drizzle to the rain, stick to
                  glass windows wetter than again
                  so come back

                  to the kitchen for lunch, 

                  coffee and the plasma of noon

                  Here we come again cool

                  standing on the chill veranda, fleece

                  jacket sleeves pointing west

                  toward the big churning

                  lake, to you, to the

                  solitude

                  you gave me, asking me

                  to follow

                  when I could

                  as soon as I kiss away

                  the dead wood, haul

                  it up the hill,

                  stack it in a row

                  at our old empty house
                  to burn

                  like every man should