Laying In

The hands,
almost monstrous,
are chipped and weathered,
huge and could encompass
a child’s head easily.

He grabs the logs he’s cut
and stacks them in the shed,
laying in the winter store,
packing the wood in tight,
serious, intent.

An empty tundra
spreads into the distance
stretched out, taut
like a blank page
awaiting the impress of history.

I want to help.
He looks towards me,
sees me as if for the first time.
I go back inside, careful
to scrape the snow from my boots.