Mr. Drake's Woodpile-Poem

He's at it again.

Each day the tier grows higher.

Sticks on sticks,

birches and maples

wedged and shoved and made to fit

and get along.

Mr.Drake is toe-deep in sawdust.

His mind is busy

and I cough when I approach.

One mustn't sneak up on woodpilers.

You can't tell what time they're in.

He smiles.

He is glade for the interruption

and the lemonade I bring.

He knows I won't stay long.

Mr. Drake is tall

but bent a bit,

and his eyes are always in

November.

Wrinkled hands lift the plastic glass.

Too many seasons handling wood I think.

We sit and draw on our drinks.

I want him to start,

to speak on pungs and plows

and all those people who sleep

in the tall steeples'

shadow;

people who have handled his heart

and know his word is good.

But he won't.

Not now.

Not today.

I form an opinion on the coming winter.

He thinks otherwise.

A compliment on his wood

seasoned and sound.

He agrees.

I point to a cord of newly split apple.

"Father and I planted those," he says.

Mr. Drake gets up to be closer to his father.

The apple is near the shed,

some already safe under cover.

Then he starts in on slow burning wood stoves,

while I'm pondering.

"They're safe," I say finally.

He won't agree

He needn't go on...
I've got a wood heater and I know

what forms adultery can take.

He puts down the glass

as a signal

to let him go back

to that other time,

before me and lemonade came along.

But I'll be back

when frost comes creeping

up sill and spine.

I'll take him beans and biscuits.

Then's the time for talk.

I'll know it's the best of winter

when we get

down to apple.