Against
When I can accomplish little
else, I split wood
against the November mornings
a cedar blaze is an only brilliance
and January mornings the heat pump’s
grip on 18 slips for lack
of a fir log’s back-up embers.
And against snow
or deadfall taking down the lines
that light our circuits. I split wood to grow
a wall rows-deep in the woodshed, letting
in and through the damp-extracting, sap-
extruding air. Into chunks and splinters
go the old deep breathers, wind-sinewy music
makers, to nothing but blow and echo.
Against despair of other purpose, I stack wood.
John Pass’s poems have been widely published in Canada, and have appeared in the U.S., the U.K., and in French translation. Prizes for his work include Canada’s most prestigious, a Governor General’s Literary Award for Poetry (2006). His 20th title, Vetrna zvonkohra (Protimluv, 2020), is a selection of his poems translated into Czech.
Read poetry by John Pass previously appearing in Terrain.org: “A Cheering Stain” and four poems from Water Stair.
Header photo by Krasula, courtesy Shutterstock. Photo of John Pass by Kris Krug
