Chopping wood
is my meditation. No
thinking. Only the
of the swing
and of the cut.

With each swing
and each cut I rise

Wood, ready for
the fire,
piles up around
the chopping block
and it becomes hard
to maneuver, though
I fail to notice.


I am.

…but there is always
the one log, knarred,
that invites me back
to the present.

I return
looking forward to
the challenge.
One might even call it
a fight.

For I know
that come winter,
when the fireplace
is lit,
I will recognize
the pieces of
that knarred
and knowing log
and I will remember each
exhaustive swing
and each reluctant cut
and I will give thanks
for the good fight
and the memories of it.

Kurt Brindley, “Poems from the River”

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