In the late fall
After apple picking and around thanksgiving
When the leaves started
To fade from green to red
We’d hook up the PTO from the old Deere
To a massive circular saw
Like something out of a cult horror movie
Coated in flaking layers of leaded rust paint
And under a cloud of diesel exhaust
And the slow blue smoke
From a constant Rothmans cigarette
We’d feed that beast the cast off limbs
Of the silent surrounding giants
And toss the amputated pieces
Onto a bottomless pile of drying wood

The dull shark teeth of that villain
And the way it would yank you in
Every time it hit an unwilling knot
While the old man on the tractor
Above nodded, smiled and coughed
And told you to count your fingers
Was a modern rite
A violent reminder
To stay sharp even when your tired bones
Were wandering towards the warmth
Of hearth and home, and
To remember that your hard won harvest
Didn’t harbour the carelessness
Of too many apple bins and turkey

The tired anxiety worn by necessity
In those darkening days
And all those pilgrim traditions of
Pending dismemberment
Marking every fleeting moment
Until thankfully, we were sent home under
A ragged red sun
Wide eyed and sore
And finally ready for winter
And for some kind of sleep