Aristophanes at the Woodpile

The wind-fall Maple yields
a dozen stove wood lengths,
pale gray cylinders whose
dull exteriors belie
sweet white wood inside.
Each free rolling piece upended
shows a brown bull'seye.

Zeus wields his axe. Split
by well-aimed blows, the right,
the left halves fall away,
each with its streak of broken
heart wood. Each no longer may
roll free but lies where chance
left it in the crisscross piles.

Each half stacked neatly but alone.
For each the other's lost among
similar, indifferent sticks,
each with its emptiness,
helpless — unless chance matches
their desire and Eros
joins them in a single fire.

Robert Chute
Beloit Poetry Journal
Volume 56, Number 2
Winter 2005/06

Copyright © 2005 by The Beloit Poetry Journal
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

REMEMBER TO SUPPORT POETRY DAILY'S GENEROUS SPONSORS... Sponsor PD!