Arson

Dinner,
dead of winter,
half frozen,
thawing out in some szechuan wok in Oregon

I notice a painted blue bird mocking me
it being painted on my table
I ignore it, and order peanut butter chicken with crab cakes
and recollect the sweet bird calls that last spring brought me

the beginning of my seasonal work in the woods
the restlessness of winter over

this being December I find my self longing for May
back to square one
back to hibernation
forced into the cold wet struggle again

the branch the bird sits on blossoms
looming almost cynically
regardless of restaurant
regardless of my dull drums
a simple bird in tree painted on wood
who'd of thought
glazed with glossy varnish
beautiful even for a cheesy oriental depiction

i take wooden pencil to paper and try to record
change my words hopelessly around
the tree on the table
the pencil on the paper
speaking

who built this table?
who felled this tree?
what real birds graced this tree before?
and were they really blue?

im glad this table is here though
to support my plate
to create my poem on
to provide a surface for my pencil

maybe the same?

I enjoy the artists mock renditions of life against preserved polished board
this table is multipurpose
contains multitudes
its form and knots
a variable I cant understand
but informing me

now that I know this table is as interested in me
as I in it
id almost like to be there for its demise
ignite my small napkin with these etchings
set it free
make kindling of my pencil
and scorch the blue bird and its happy home

invite the artist,
lumber jack,
and carpenter
to watch our creation smoke and ash

up up up

into the harsh December sky