-This poem reflects on autumn rain passing over a woodpile prepared during summer, darkening the grain and gathering around the stored fuel that will warm the house when colder weather arrives.
The rain begins before the light,
a patient tapping on the tarp,
then slips between the rows of oak
and darkens bark along the ends.
The logs were split in summer heat,
their cut faces pale in the sun,
but now the grain grows dark with rain,
and wet leaves gather at the base.
By noon, the gutters overflow,
the sparrows shelter in the eaves,
a narrow stream runs down the stack
and carries sawdust to the grass.
At dusk, the rain grows thin and cold,
we pull the loosened canvas tight;
beneath one folded corner seam,
a drop strikes tin, then strikes again.