It wasn’t really John’s saw <br />that carved the branch into fire logs - <br />its blade severing rings of time. <br />The saw was mine but just like his. <br /> <br />Resting for a spell I thought of John: <br />clearing his spread by the Williamson Road, <br />building fences, raising his barn, <br />or, like me, cutting wood for the hearth. <br /> <br />But perhaps I didn’t “think” of John at all <br />since he lives in each cell that I am <br />He may have just stirred a little within <br />to recall pioneer paths we once had walked. <br /> <br />The long branch shortened <br />as John and I pistoned our arms <br />in unison across centuries <br />slicing through time and space - <br />stacking fuel to warm a cold winter’s night.<br /><br />Robert Charles Howard<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/gathering-wood-for-the-hearth/
