Collective Action

The cast iron door of the wood stove swings open 
and I can feel the weight despite the gentle ease -
I can also feel the heat on my face and hands,
and smoke wafts up and out.

The split wedge of oak that I feed in on top of the orange coals
is seasoned grey with three years of drying in the stacks out back.
It will burn well and hot. 
I close the door to the stove and lock the handle
like a banker at the end of the day. 

Winter is upon us.

Where the grass shows between the snow, 
faded and brown, the ground is frozen to rock. 
Where the blades bent cool beneath our bare feet,
there is no forgiveness now. 

Up the chimney and into the night air we send the smoke of our fire. 
There are other chimneys doing the same - 
and there are yellow lights in the windows.
I imagine a couple walking outside with boots and jackets and wool mittens
on the dark street.
They are a little less alone, a little less cold, with the smell of woodsmoke
hanging in the air. 
We are all a little less alone, a little less cold. 

Youth

 I think of the wasted motion of my youth -
grand statements of purpose,
aspirations without understanding the cost.

A life that is a car with two new, but wrong-sized tires -
a map in hand, but of the wrong city -
trying to follow it because 

its a map -
wobbling and bobbing around corners.
Still faster than the older models around me,
but why do they seem to get there first?

Too many mismatched pieces - 
like going to work with a wingtip 
and an Air Jordan -
going to the gym and changing, 
only to put the same but opposite -
not knowing why everything is so difficult.

They say you can't fix stupid, 
but I wasn't stupid -
just young.