The glinting arch of sun on steel that split
the air absorbed the life of muslces warmed
with vernal heat and drove the axe head hard
against the wood. Good blocks of oak he split,
and sweetly scented pieces lay asprawl,
prepared to yield their heat, their meat, to him.
The hands that held the axe were supple still,
though course to touch. Their strokes were sure and quick,
and driven by the joyful ache of earnest love.

She said, “It’s time for me to go.”

………………………………………He stopped.
“What’s that? I thought you had some things to do.
You know: Some things to do up at the house.”

“All done.” She moved her eyes away from his
and whispered, “I’m all packed.” She saw the axe
he held and laughed. “What’s wrong with you? You know
how fast the chainsaw is–” He dropped the axe.
She watched it fall, and in the worn-out grip
she glimpsed the man as she had not before.
She paused, then set herself and said again,
“It’s time for me to go.”

……………………………“The corn’s about
to come.” He knelt as if collecting wood
and tried to steady failing legs. He bowed
his head to hide his face and gasped against
a searing pain that started low and spread.
“This could be our best crop.”

………………………………….“I have to go.”

The hollow slap of sleet on pitted steel
that lay where it had fallen rose unheard
and died above the nearby fallow fields.
The untouched handle, cracked and splintered, sunk
a little deeper in the mud. The blocks
of wood, unstacked, unburned, and brown and soft,
now fouled the cutting winds with fetid mold.
The muscles warmed with vernal heat grew still
and cold in the grieving ache of earnest love.