and suddenly everything smells like
half a dozen summers ago
sitting on your porch
green paint peeling beneath my feet
and my father burning all the bills
and a rootbeer between my lips
and you singing some old ditty
about a door and a young boy
and wiping the work from your hands.
the summer is ending
and we need wood for when the weather turns,
the weather always turns, oh best beloved.
so we will go back out into the forest
and you will be there swinging the ax
and I will stack logs
and gather blackberries
and sing to you
and I will bring them home
and you will stay in the forest
and the weather will turn as it always does.