The Wood Pile

Note: A Southern friend brings a load of wood from his own stand of trees, saying that when he was growing up, certain ladies in his community always brought potato salad to the home in times of grief.

The Wood Pile

My friend, your gift of trees, lacy with lichen,

Each log containing some history of the other,

Lies rudely dismembered in my yard;

If sons were got in parts

With the deftness of your woodsy art,

We'd make a merry stack,

Each piled upon his brother,

But hearts grow old and slow.

We borrow from the piglet parts

To give us longer, stronger life,

Lying below the surgeon's knife

Like the lamb bleating for Abraham,

Struggling to be his sacrifice.

Uncommon friend, your educated axe

Reminds me now of that old father

And how he sweat until belief became relief.

[Undated poem by Virginia McKinnon Mann.]