For All Our Sakes

A poem by Scott McConnaha

Please stop.
Go outside and cut up trees,
the dead ones, of course.
There’s something pure and good
in this labor, worn out and sweaty
with as much dirt and sawdust
inside your shirt as on the outside.
This isn’t beneath you or me or anyone.
Especially not that lot running things.

When the logs are stacked
and we reward ourselves with a beer
next to the burning brush pile,
let’s not talk religion or politics, but only
how nice the row of firewood looks
and how we wish more people knew
this is all it takes.

It may change your perspective
on what’s important, I mean
vitally important,
because this kind of work
shuts you up and forces a deep
look inside, and not enough people
do that nowadays.
You won’t like what you see,
I seldom do, but keep at the trees
and the view will change.
This work strips away and cleanses,
restores what has gone bad.

When you go in for your shower
before dinner, grab another beer
(let’s not judge each other on this one)
and as the dirt pools around your feet
think about what you did today.
I promise
this time
you won’t be sorry.