Still Life

Raining fairly hard and I need wash water, so I stir from my stupor. Rotate pickle buckets around, fill the kettle on the stove. Basho at the end: chop wood, haul water. I cook a sweet potato, wrapped in foil, in the fire-box of the stove, fry a small steak and have to laugh at myself, dirty and stove-up, but I must say, with a great pile of wood in the shed. I still have seven rounds of the oak to split in half, so I can carry it at all, butt rounds, dense and twisted, but I'm good at this, splitting wood is good therapy. I'm sore, make no mistake, but nothing is strained, and nothing is sacred. I pushed hard today, to get firewood under cover. I did what I needed to do. Later, I thought I might have done things differently, but I'm not sure. Plopped down on the sofa and I was asleep within minutes, then woke at midnight. Sore in all the muscle groups, but no one worse than any other. Wrote for a couple of hours then went back to sleep. Met TR at the pub, just had a beer because I wanted to stop and get a footer with jalapeno poppers on the way home. Picked up what I needed to make the kale, chick-pea, chorizo soup. Changing with the seasons. The power is out when I get home, so I go outside with the bow-saw and cut up some dead poplar saplings that will make sufficient fires for the next couple of cool nights. I'm amazed my arms work. I need to bust up some pallets for kindling (the slats) and starter sticks (the runners) so I hauled a couple to the woodshed. I need a clear path to the compost heap, and a path to the outhouse. Cucumber sandwiches on bread without crusts. Unsalted butter, pull out all the stops. I wonder if we're supposed to feel that way, slightly guilty, and aware that our bodies betray us.