Linda Fair

I have dragged the wood in my green

wheelbarrow up the steps—five big bumps

I have muscled it to the portal

to stack piece by splintered piece

I have lighted the fire

I am ready

I have called the plumber

two days

two days    no heat    no hot water

I am cold

I am waiting

I am old

I have no time

for stanzas

I am cold

I loosen the tourniquet of winter

and wrestle    the earth    the skies

who would undo me.

‍