It gives me pleasure to write a prose poem; it gives me pleasure to stack the cordwood, close to the house and under the shake roof eaves. And in the winter, it gives me pleasure to dig the snow from the door to the pile. The door to the hearth is always swept clean.
Once, when I was younger and smaller, my father had me move the wood pile. I really cannot remember why. He liked to burn California oak. He said that it burned long. I remember the rough texture on my hands. I remember the lichen in the dark, silvered bark, the dendroid tufts of green clinging to parts.
This was not painting the fence, or cutting the grass. It was no six bits an hour job, just a choir. The prize was the three foot long, black and white banded king snake curled underneath.
Taken from “Some Notes on 21sth Century Sorcery”