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Firewood Mornings

That house is cold,
silence seeping up the chimney
like ghost smoke.
Some mornings,
when the wood splitter
has gone off to the metal forest,
I deliver.
Would that I were
a permanent logger,
but I can only 
kindle kindness on short occasions,
daring dark blades,
oiled by the desire
for leisurely cuts.
But some nights I return
to the clearing,
hearing the crackle and pop
of old bones,
alone in pine-scented dreams,
consumed, disappearing
like sawdust in the wind.

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