A Chord of wood

Autumn hinted in the reddening leaves
And the sudden crispness creeping into the night.
My wife, Mary, ordered a chord of wood
It came in a large truck, backing, beeping
As it reversed onto our pebbled driveway
We’d move the cars to make way.

And now with the pile dumped
Cured oak lying helter skelter on the ground
Mine it was to stack it, first
Into the nook in our garage wall
There  kept safe, kiln dry, snug

Against the coming winter’s storms. The rest
Piled against its wall, four one way
Four the next, a pattern patiently growing high
Carefully picked, which one next, which one
To fit, till, standing back to
See the shape of things

This now small pile remaining,  left un-chosen
Its pieces ill shaped, torn by the splitting machine
Kindling, a pile of unwanted dirt and ill fitting shapes
That like ill suited persons
Stand in the small remaining crowd unable
To find a place in our well ordered piles.