Throughout the long winter, I shovel you with my leathery, spotted hands from the floor of the woodstove. In a rusty bucket I bear you to the garden.
If the wind is calm, I toss you, far and wide, ashes to dirt, so that, like a pall, you blanket the frozen ground.
I remember you. You are what is left of that pignut hickory, once young and lively. Now that you are used up and gray, it’s hard to imagine that you were once the sinewy fibers, the flowing sap and youthful bark of that towering tree that swayed high and mighty along the wood’s edge.
When I found you last, you were bent over, broken and rotting. I cut, split and stacked you for winter heat.
And now, there you are, scattered about, giving back, to the resting earth. As the remaining winter days turn toward Easter, you will join with the waking soil. And all summer long, you will feed the beans and potatoes and carrots.
You are all that’s left of what you once were. It’s good to be reminded that,
Sometimes all that’s left has much to offer.