Miracle of Wood

—that wood could come in 
that thin and blonde 
for kindling 
after the dark bark, 
after the ax whack 
and the crack 
of white opening, 
the stria of wood 
gouging, indenting 
my armloaded skin 

—that I could feel it roll 
piece by piece 
into the bottom of the woodbox
layered with wood chips, 
chunks of bark, 
the hint of pinecone 
mixed with damp earth 

—that wood could come in 
from a cold dark shed 
and give off so much heat 
in a snow-blown frozen winter,
sometimes the only light 
in the early morning farmhouse
—that the colored fire 
could make jewels of our eyes 
and surprise us 

—that even a split log 
frozen and snow buried 
could load our fire 
with sizzle heat, 
the moisture dropping, 
never drowning out the coals 

—that wood could like loaves 
of Mother’s bread,
the hardened crust,
the sliced steam, 
my teeming nostrils 
welcoming