I've brought a bucket of shavings and scraps,
of waste and mistakes that cluttered the backyard boatshed
to the stone ring in the yard my wife made
to keep our fires. I go to work with the matches.
I'm puffing at it on hands and knees when the rain
comes: slapping, fat and heavy, building
fast. More matches are useless and then
it is soaked and back in the shop I'm shaking
my head. A fool who can't light a fire
with five matches. Who tries in a rainstorm.
There in the shed with the pine planks I scheme
to make (fool?) a skiff of, I stare
at our trees through the rain's gorgeous veils
and then turn to see the scrapheap brightly ablaze.
Just in case my last comment didn't go through. I was going to say that I liked this. I like the plain imagery of it - has the smell of Vermont about it, or I could be making that up. I just like that it is what it is.
ReplyDeleteWhereabouts in Vermont do you live?