the pile of wood out in the yard,
he chopped each piece with skill and care,
and left them basking in the sun
and autumn air.

the wood sits loveless in the grass,
a year of seasons passed since then –
the rusting axe, forgotten, she
won’t use again.

as though in wood for fire, she
would waste the mem’ries she could stoke.
and all the burning love they shared
go up in smoke.

… A prompted post.

… and you will, too, if you read this.

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Always Something There to Remind Me

= = = = = | = = = = =

So the Haydn String Quartet Opus 55, Number 2
Nicknamed “the Razor”
Comes on the radio, and I’m reminded

Of this time I was stuck in Washington, DC
For a class for three weeks, and
I listened to the classical radio station at night

And I kept hearing this same string quartet
Over and over
And it wasn’t like I didn’t hear lots of other great music

Like the whole cycle of Schubert piano sonatas
Anyway, I’m eating bags and bags of Cheetos and
Doughnuts, because those are perfect for listening

To Haydn String Quartets —
When this knock comes on the door, and
It’s myself from thirty years in the future going

“Are you every going to end this ridiculous poem
Or is this just more of that sort of Celtic
Shaggy Dog Story thing I’ve heard so much about”

And twenty something me says
“Did we ever find out why the DJs kept playing the
Same piece over and over?”

And fifty something me says
“Can you even call people who play classical music on the radio
‘DJ’s’? Wouldn’t the be more like ‘Maître d’J’s’ or something fancy like that?”