Preserve

I carry the wood like a baby, coddled at the bend of my arm. Morning sun hits the neck. Wind tongues each cheek. Down the valley grey mountains hide in the thick of fog.
 
Pick up, cradle, carry.

I place the wood on top of her sisters and push her between cobwebs. Under windowsills. She lines the porch with the promise of warmth.

Stack, turn, repeat.

The storm moves in from the west—California, Nevada, Utah, here. A day until the snow arrives. It’s warm now and sweat tumbles down the spine. I take off my fleece, let the wood poke into my skin, break it open, rub into me. Splinter.

Weeks ago, I curled between Aspen trees, let gold leaves dangle over my face. I stepped over the blanket of fall, pure yellow paths cut between pines. I lay on the forest floor, rubbed my head into its dirt, threw off my top and let the sun meet all parts of me. I slept.

The porch is lined. Stacked with logs. Now, I cut.

I pull a log from the left—last year’s wood—and place it on the stump. I push my hands into small gloves. Hands around the maul. Bend the knees. Balance the body. Study the wood for natural splits. Bring the maul over the head. Swing.

It separates onto the porch. My hands gather the breakups and place them into a black bucket.

Weeks ago, I walked into black-ash trees, hit by summer fire. My hands caressed the limbs. My nose pushed into their centers, smelled the death of their burn. They shifted with the wind. Thin, dark torsos. Dead but swaying. Wildflowers took over the forest floor. Pinks, yellows, whites and purple pirouetted around the gone. I sat in this graveyard. I cried.

I carry the wood like a baby. I place it into the stove and rip cardboard into crooked rectangles. I tear into newspaper, with headlines of school shootings and smash it into balls. I swipe a match and watch the words take fire. The flames are moss green at their base. Yellow-burnt tips. The logs burn black. I think of the seasons.

The house smells of spirits. I dig into this sadness. Cut into this wood. I feel strength in my back.

Months ago, I arrived in these mountains. I stepped upon their ankles and stumbled through their forest. I felt my lungs struggle, my breath shorten, my lips thirsty. I hung onto trees for support, wrapped my bony fingers around them and pulled.

I gather the ashes with a small shovel and empty them into a silver container on the porch. The snow hits my face. The wind smacks the shovel. Wood ash drifts into night.