Back to Terry Thomas's Artist PageTo the Artist's Page     Back to the Unlikely Stories home pageTo our home page
He Ran up a TreeTo Terry Thomas's next piece

Firewood Mornings

That house is cold,
silence seeping up the chimney
like ghost smoke.
Some mornings,
when the wood splitter
has gone off to the metal forest,
I deliver.
Would that I were
a permanent logger,
but I can only 
kindle kindness on short occasions,
daring dark blades,
oiled by the desire
for leisurely cuts.
But some nights I return
to the clearing,
hearing the crackle and pop
of old bones,
alone in pine-scented dreams,
consumed, disappearing
like sawdust in the wind.

To the top of this pageTo the top of this page