CHRONICLE OF LOGS

Bringing in the wood
while our führer dances
on the head of a
Drone.

White snow sifting
sugarcoats the frozen ground
but no one likes
the taste of truth.

On New Year’s Day I wrote
a poem on war
two days later
it began.

Next I rearrange the stack
left on the porch
you like my chronicle of logs
the mention of fire comforts.

The bend the heft the hoist
breath visible in the air
peel off gloves while the
heat hugs and fire comforts.

– Diane Sophrin
  Vermont (1.7.20)

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