Cordwood

The days lean
into each other in a
thick forest of time.
Evenings,
she stacks them
outside the back door,
hewn and spent,
in neat cordwood rows.

In the palm of
each branch
lies a story,
ringing the years.
Rough bark surrounds
and protects her.
She is oak
and aspen,
she is willow.

Slam of the screen door
slaps the night.
She walks out into the rain.
Warm, it soaks her
skin and hair.
Sinks her feet into the soft,
moist earth.
Rooted now,
she draws upward.
Arms outstretched,
she crowns, full,
touches stars
in the dark sky.
She grows.

Mary Ellen Seidel
8/2002