2.
I just move things around
but I pour my heart into the work
of a mess of leaves into a mountainous dome
of a chaos of split wood into orderly stacks
of a tangle of straw from the potato trenches
and it's never about the perfect end
the fowl will scatter the leaves
the wood will start to warm me twice before it's finished warming me once
the earth below the straw will reveal only a small harvest this year
but I say it under my breath again:
the effort is worth the reward
as I look up
an intake of breath
sharp and sudden
a gasp at the beauty of crisp golden leaves against the bluest blue sky
then back to my work
like a sand painting
I move things around
until they are just right
until it makes sense to stop
and I watch the breeze
take first one leaf from the top of my mountain
and then another
and I take an armload of wood inside
to feed the hungry stove
and I set the potatoes out to cure
but take a few now for the evening meal
and my heart is full.
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