I pick through April’s shrunken woodpile,
throw chips and divots of winter’s wood-splitting
in the wheelbarrow?box elder chips,
chunks of half-rotted, bone-dry elm,
popple splinters, an odd pine block or two?
all too small or fast-burning
to sate the woodstove’s January appetite,
but enough to re-kindle a little sunlight,
released in a small fire on a cool morning,
the same way a jar of home-canned peaches releases
the buzz of honey bees on peach blossoms when opened.
I re-pile oak logs, save them for next winter’s cold nights
like jars of sweet peaches, stored on the pantry shelves,
saved for cobbler and pies when the trees are bare.
The thought creeps into my head
that a lot of folks won’t see another harvest, another winter.
I hope it’s not us, honey; but just in case it is,
let’s open a jar of peaches for breakfast,
savor a hint of summer as we huddle before the fireplace.

© by Larry Schug.
Used with the author’s permission.