Firewood

Hauling in logs before first sleet snowfall,

wrapping tarp about the pyramid pile,

huffing and puffing like a berserker,

ferreting out a splinter from finger,

waiting for the first flakes of brute winter

with a shot-glass of gleaming malt whiskey,

one may ponder loss, gain, futility

as glass grows empty as philosophy.

Life seems like a preposterous pageant

of wind-blown snowflakes scattering blind cant—

without much effect—in weather frozen,

indifferent, melancholy, wooden.

Yet a glimmer in mirthful memory

boasts an old, happy, larking legacy!