I heard the whistle of winter blow
as my chain saw howled in August
inside the maple I felled last fall
and let sit for a year in sections
before sawing it into logs for splitting.
My sweat mixed in with the maple,
so I was acrid, acrid. Never enough
wood for winter, although there is,
even when the frost extends to the end
of April and the pile diminishes
to half a cord. You can't fell a dozen trees
that have to season a couple of years
and feel you've felled enough.
Winter freezes more than your feet
and fingers, also your eyes in an inward stare.
You know in either the heat of August
or the warmth of the shut-down stove
in March that winter is always ahead,
no matter the season, bearing down
with a schedule that's written in white
and is more than punctual: relentless,
long, and residual, that shakes the house
as it passes by like an engine hauling
ten thousand cars of coal and snow.











Used by permission of the author.