Splitting
Stacks of Pine
Snow swirled
all autumn in our dreams,
but now it's real in mountains
clouds blot out. Tucked into snow boots
and coats, we rock on the deck
and let
the fat flakes stick.
My beard and baseball cap turn white.
We blink, and coffee cools.
Decades ago on vacations,
our children
tumbled in snow
and shouted, the same shots clicked
again, again. Now, this cabin is home--
lock, stock of coffee beans,
and barrel
of flour for sourdough biscuits
and sorghum. Two old lovers can't keep
a wick from flickering, but we'll split
stacks of pine and clean the chimney,
chink
the doors. Games and books
line the shelves and we have quilts
enough, even if blizzards blow
all month and the windows freeze.
Boys and the War Effort
Did the
furrows curve in World War Two
when I daydreamed, riding Granddaddy's tractor?
I was ten, but he let me plow like a man,
old rows
so deep I followed like horses
that knew their way back to the barn. Watch out,
little rabbits, Walt's coming. Watch out,
rattlesnakes,
I'll cut you. Those plows were mine
for an hour, big tires going around
like wagon wheels in westerns, though not backward.
I pretended
I was a pilot, the plows
wing-mounted cannons, Spitfire or Mustang.
With John Deere popping, I yanked the wheel
to lift
off, to climb and bank behind the bad guy,
bringing another Messerschmitt down in flames
over France, crowds cheering when I touched down
at the
turn row, tugging the wide wheel
around to the west, another eight rows
before supper, eight aces to shoot down.
Copyright © 2001 Walt McDonald
