Stacking wood

Your red heart…

And swirls and pink stripes

Turned up with

An hour’s notice

On a Monday

Morning wood stacking

That’s my poetry attempt at the fact that after three weeks of not having understood whether we had successfully placed an order for wood or not, it turned up by surprise today with an hour’s notice, after a phone call about how to find the house. This, despite the fact that the guy who delivered for the last three years in a row, delivered again today. And not because we didn’t understand from a language point of view but because from what the Punto Agrario told us, the firewood supply was not guaranteed this year. We half waited, half simply forgot we had even bothered with the order until I got the phone call today.

I had forgotten what a thing of beauty timber is. Stacking it is a monotonous but meditative affair. You ponder and remember, the days as a girl I would stick a pencil behind my ear, pretending I was our Italian neighbour, a carpenter who had learned his trade in Australia. Or a trip years ago to Timbertown where I vaguely remember my mother in a rare moment of fun sawing away at a big log with my aunt.

The adrenalin and thrill of the wood chop at the Royal Easter Show, when you would never have said these burly men would prove such poetry in motion. You can never miss a wood chopping event, the race-like commentary through distant nasal microphones, the smooth, slow-motion rhythm of silent axes through the air before hitting with a thwack the sturdy beams.

I am reminded of all this as I load, and push the wheelbarrow, unload and back to the pallet to load again. To and fro, knots and sap, branches and trunk, little logs and lichen. Meditative, wood stack on a Monday thanks to Punto Agrario.

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