There's something about a woodpile...

This is a poem taken from the time I spent in Tuscany. By the side of the house where we lived was this old woodpile, a gate and a bench. All basically unused but aesthetically quite pleasing to look at and wonder about. This little writing comes from these items;




The Woodpile


There is a woodpile somewhere in Toscana,
composed of the debris the present house’s
former self has shed,
that leans on cypresses– old wood like old bones
need buttresses.

There is a gate at the entrance to the woodpile,
somewhere in Toscana,
that leads to no where.

And, there is a bench by the gate, at the entrance
to the woodpile where few have sat,
over the years, now
over-wrought by weeds.

Yet, all this had to be imagined.
An old ingenuity was involved.
The maker did not have to place these objects there.
His intention was not one of pure function–

save the purpose to stir the mind
as the wind stirs all things...
and the cypresses leaned...