It wasn’t really John’s saw
that carved the branch into fire logs -
its blade severing rings of time.
The saw was mine but just like his.
Resting for a spell I thought of John:
clearing his spread by the Williamson Road,
building fences, raising his barn,
or, like me, cutting wood for the hearth.
But perhaps I didn’t “think” of John at all
since he lives in each cell that I am
He may have just stirred a little within
to recall pioneer paths we once had walked.
The long branch shortened
as John and I pistoned our arms
in unison across centuries
slicing through time and space -
stacking fuel to warm a cold winter’s night.
Robert Charles Howard
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/gathering-wood-for-the-hearth/
