by David Budbill
I finished loading the woodshed today. Every year
I tell myself, This is it, the last time. It’s just too
much work, too painful, and I’m too old.
And then, the next year, when fall rolls
around, the air gets cold, and the geese go south, I
load the woodshed again.
How long will this go on? I’m seventy-two.
Every year it takes me longer to recover,
yet every year I keep doing it.
It’s just, now that I’m done, I can go out into
the woodshed, sit in a chair, and look at all those
neatly stacked rows, six and a half feet high, six feet
long and sixteen inches deep, two sets of rows like that,
left and right, four full cord — not much by some standards —
but enough to keep us warm all winter.
When I go out and look at what I’ve done, I get such a deep
sense of satisfaction from this backaching labor that I can’t
imagine a year without going through all that pain again.
I finished loading the woodshed today. Every year
I tell myself, This is it, the last time. It’s just too
much work, too painful, and I’m too old.
And then, the next year, when fall rolls
around, the air gets cold, and the geese go south, I
load the woodshed again.
How long will this go on? I’m seventy-two.
Every year it takes me longer to recover,
yet every year I keep doing it.
It’s just, now that I’m done, I can go out into
the woodshed, sit in a chair, and look at all those
neatly stacked rows, six and a half feet high, six feet
long and sixteen inches deep, two sets of rows like that,
left and right, four full cord — not much by some standards —
but enough to keep us warm all winter.
When I go out and look at what I’ve done, I get such a deep
sense of satisfaction from this backaching labor that I can’t
imagine a year without going through all that pain again.
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