Her Father's old wool jacket,
from Johnson Mills,
in creamy white,
dark forest green,
golden amber,
in a lovely patchwork,

A soft dark winter tuke on her head,
that dark green in the background,
with rusty speckles on her cheeks,

Wet snow falls silent,
the sky is a crisp Winter blue,
the air is cold and clear,
& intoxicatingly clean,

As she breathes life in and out,
then,
looking down at her black Sorel boots
and her worn black denim jeans,
a nice old holey wool sweater,
and a maul,

A **** lumberjack?
Maybe...

Dressed to hack the wood,
the plumber thinks so,
he stops by,
a friend of hers,
sorta,

Huh?

Not invited,
but no one is around here,
we all do it,
so he helps too,

Hey I'll make lunch,
harmless flirting,
I suppose,

Because,
wood warms you 3 times they say,

Once to chop it,
two to stack it RIGHT,
three to bring it in & burn it,

But if you count the starting of the,
cantankerous chainsaw & the guy,
helping you,

And you hafta arrange & rearrange, everything,
cleaning the flue and chimney,
I'd say a few more than that,
& don't ferget to pay the man,
the cantankerous one,

Yeah he got lunch too,
and about them ashes,
could be pretty hot,
take 'em out regular,
that stove cranking too,
OUCH,

She ends up gets burned,
a few times each year,

Taday,
she's on step too,
as she picks up the heavy maul,
not to heavy for this gal,
all the way back,
watch yourself,

As a neighbor winches,
a woman chopping wood?

Yup.
That's right,
a way of life,
for her,
always has been,
poised and ready,
swing and smack,
if you hit it right,
you hear a crack,

Just like a baseball bat,
hitting a homer,

Big pieces,
are made more manageable,
when you don't try to control the force,
when you let the sharpened maul,

Do all the work,
for you.
Cherie Nolan © 2016