Split Logs

I went out beyond the shed
To bring the last logs in. But the snow
And ice upon the wood seemed so
Precariously poised, set there upon the pine's
Gray face by an order not seen to me,
That I didn't deserve to alter it,
Not yet. Not until I had been so weathered,
I thought. But the icy wind blows
Right through me. I shiver and twist
My head, half expecting to see winter
Standing right beside me in her best white gown,
But it's only the oak trees there and their
Brothers the fir in the stand beyond.
How did that wind sneak through you?
I think, but don't say aloud.
Then conclude, The way it just passed through me.
There we stood in a way of conversation:
The white-topped, seasoned pine; a solemn, silent oak
And I. Inside the fire's dying, and wonders whether
It’s feverish hunger will be filled.
I take the split log by the end, spill the mystery
Upon the ground, and trace my way,
Over my own tracks, backward through the snow.