Forward is backward,
Backward forward,
Like forward is down &
Backward is up in a plane
My only job
To keep this formula straight
Dismembering & shattering
Hundred-pound oak rounds
Still so green
We feel them clutching life
In their sappy knots.
The splitter is home-made,
Fifteen years ago,
A clinky-clanking
Hydraulic ripper-stripper
Driven by a five-horse
Lawnmower motor,
With a hydraulic arm
The length of my salmon rod.
It begs a lube,
Balking sometimes
As it judders
To catch its breath,
And burps to clear
An airway before
It resumes.
We argue all day
About terminology
Ricks versus ranks
As cluttered ground
Becomes a neat pile
The height of Wilt the Stilt,
Three times as long.
I find the work mindless
Turn myself into
An astronaut
Using delicate jet puffs
To maneuver things around in space
Outside the lab.
Occasionally a log splits
With a sharp pop,
Tumbles into space
And I remember gravity
Is with us
So we can fetch the waywards
Where they land,
Avoid plotting a missions
In higher math towards the moon
Or worry about re-entry
& sundry techie crapaloids.
In such moments
When my mind returns to earth
I think not of wood
But Hendricksons
And maybe tonight we finally catch
A spinnerfall. ~ Joe Haywood