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Andy Chunn Jul 2020
Overgrowths of arm-post life
Lift upward as my steam-breath
Vanishes thinly into the sky.

Cool sweat drips deliberately
As the stacks grow larger
And the sawdust smells and sticks.

The wagon-load will wallow obediently
As the frost bites cleanly
Through the still winter dusk.

Ash white smoke curls softly
From the cut-stone chimney
Where a portrait of simplicity
Sleeps eternally in my mind.
julie Oct 2018
trees are changing their robes;
on misty mornings
I am sitting on my porch.
a book  
I've found in a vintage bookstore
at the corner of my street
is lying in my lap

drinking a tea
wrapped into my favorite blanket
and watching my neighbors
carving their pumpkins

smelling the scent
of firewood
while also listening to
Frank Sinatra

autumn, oh autumn
where have you been?
You promised kisses
beneath the old oak

You said you would give
youself to me then

Under the summer's
eager stary eyes

But they came
and cut the oak down

But not before
you left town

Now all I have
is the promise

Of firewood for those
cold lonely nights
Amanda Feb 2015
The bitter cold
nips at my neck
but I linger outside
if only to get a whiff of
the smoky smell
of firewood burning
that makes me nostaglic
for winter days.

— The End —