seasoning the wood

in the field up the street the farmer 
keep piles of split logs. a limb cascade 
stacked toward the sky. in winter 
i buy wood in the dark. i would use 
a flashlight to cut the shadows. the piles 
were always moving like thousand-fingered animals.
the farmer with his leather skin & green cap 
standing in the distance like just another
tree's shoulder. it takes two years to really
season the wood. while it waits, the wood basks
in memories. each piece becoming brothers
beneath the sun's wingbeats. in february 
the seasoned wood ran out but the cold stayed.
i wanted any escape from the fire's hunger.
more & more & more. i would drive past
to see if the farmer was still there. it could be
any time of night & he would be with the wood.
part of the wood. i saw him split. the rings
of a carousel in the mountains split
into arches. fibers from the saw. no matter what you do
you cannot rush the trees. cannot quickly
season the wood. time is not on our side. 
i think it is inside us in rings. a boy 
in the town where i grew up swallowed 
a pocket watch. turned into a tree & legend says
if you put your ear to the tree, it is still ticking. 
i know how long a log has been waiting just
by touching the surface. when they are ready
their flesh is hard. a closed fist. a smooth breaking
just beneath the surface. the farmer's teeth
in the ringing moonlight.