A beguest

Outside my darkened house, I saw The moon shining like a blessing On the sawbuck in the clearing, Sloping old and mutely loyal In the clutter of wood shavings, Waiting, poignant with the presence Of my father's last gift to me. As his worn shoulders bent over Exact proportions of timber, He said with the sureness of age, That has learned what can be precise -- "Twenty-two inches is correct For your stove -- there'll be no mistakes." And he smiled at the uniqueness, And dusted off his creation. And summer and winter it's shaped My woodpile to proper accord For the living warmth of my hearth, Like a comforting certainty Of his loving -- lingering still

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