The Smoking Bench
I sit on a bench.
The wood, I like to think it’s oak,
is barely damp from the morning rain.
I rub my hand across the swelled up timber,
tracing the grooves in the wood with my fingertips.
.
I remember that time in the Fall
that the rain fell on us in slow, fat drops.
I sat upon a bench then too,
watching you split the firewood,
revealing the foxy orange of the Alder’s innards.
.
He asks me now, when did this start?
and I will answer with that moment,
when you and I gathered the firewood into our arms,
cold fingers grasping handfuls of kindling,
juggling to open the door.
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