A Poem for June

Me and the Wood Pile

Today I pulled

all the firewood

out of the shade

at the back of the yard.

Everything there,

in a state of near-rot.

It seemed

a fitting metaphor

for my own thought,

my muddy mind,

heavy and spongy,

the logs welded

with moist dirt,

rolly-pollies, worms,

and not a dry twig

in the lot. Everything

bound by a tangle

of tenacious green

fronds strangling

potential energy. I laid

each piece out against

the garage in the warm

sun, my bedraggled army

wet and fungal, the wood

slick with mushrooms

and not fit for duty.

With each piece unearthed

I felt my head clear.

I know with time

and heat the water-

logged wood will dry.

Like me, under the new

tarp I bought, the logs

will grow hard and firm.

I will protect them,

along with my desire.

Soon, there will be fire.

Lisa Vihos