Fresh Cracked Maple

Minus twenty with warm powder laden breeze,
Snow dusted maple, sunlight cut, warmth, in rounds,
Winter cracks it open with the effortless tap of the Oxhead,
A man splits, a boy helps, the load is made,
Rosy-amber porcelain cracked faces,
Tasteful non-structurally compromising spalting,

Hearth dried hunks of  beautifully imposing density and hardness,
Decomposing into deep beds of luminous embers,
fitful and patient over long hours, with no replacement.

Cozy and warm a boy sleeps, wrapped in family-blankets,
Winds and snow blow silently against the argon filled tripled panes,
The blizzard, intimate while removed,
Like a down comforter, draped over the house.

Critters and boys doze away and dream of summer's light.

Sometimes fresh cracked maple tastes best.