It wasn’t really John’s saw
that carved the branch into logs -
its blade severing rings of time.
The saw was mine but just like his.

Resting for a spell, I thought of John:
clearing his spread by the Williamson Road,
building fences, raising his barn,
or, like me, cutting wood for the hearth.

But perhaps I didn’t “think” of John at all
since he lives in each cell that I am.
He may have just stirred a little within
to recall pioneer paths we once had walked.

The long branch shortened
as John and I pistoned our arms
in unison across centuries
slicing through time and space -
stacking fuel to warm a cold winter’s night.

May, 2006