The pile goes down;
A bristling caterpillar;
A hostile cocoon;
A wooden wall of bric-a-brac:
Fence panels and trees that fell
Like bodies — wracked by storms,
Cut by teeth, stacked by folk,
My band, my people.
Touching scars, our gloves became sops
For sap and the memory of blossom…
Swings… cooking apples… birds…
Seasons of migration…
All fuel for fire. I know
How the column goes: up – up – up.
Limbs and splinters steam to dust.
Dirt patches peek through lawn.
Earth peers — pure pregnancy;
Showing warm potentiality.
The pile is ripe.
It is raw.
