To gather kindling’s not a task or chore:
a pleasure, once or twice a week, to walk
the forest slowly, deep in thought, or not;
eyes upon the blooming forest floor
admiring mustards, vetches, and penstemons,
a basket slung upon my arm for twigs
I harvest dry from broken silver snags
of lightning splintered juniper and pinyon.
The purest moment comes in gathering kindling
when the satisfying snap is all you hear.
Neighbors’ engines driving, cutting, digging,
the jets above, even the songs of birds,
all fall away. The ricegrass at my feet
perceives the silence, the sound of god providing.
When ample kindling’s gathered in the basket,
and logs are drying stacked beside the door,
assuring through the coming storm the peace
of mind and heart derived of certain heat,
the hearth replete fulfills a simple need.