Fear of Firewood

67 GALVIN BRENDAN GALVIN FEAR OF FIREWOOD Because I have listened to the trees' unceasing palaver, and seen how their crowned stumps in lapsed or returning light appear to move closer to my house, I put off splitting the dry cords until one morning I look in a puddle and see water stunned, ready to be something I can hold in one hand. While the bow saw exacts cries, I watch for a trickle of blood. A knot may cleave on a profile remembered from some waiting room. Working a trapped wedge free, sometimes I'm afraid the log will close on my hand and never let go. To warm me a little, every day something dies. The inner life of trees cools and congeals in my flue, and builds on its harbored revenge. ...