Even in the heat of summer,
when mosquitos and gnats
swarm around my woodsman’s cap,
the coldest days of winter lurk.
Like a beaver caching tender branches
underwater outside its lodge,
I stack neat rows of canned sunshine,
stored in solid oak,
having found security and self-esteem
in a large pile of firewood, cut, split, stacked,
while the buck-toothed, flat-tailed logger and I
laugh in the face of Jack Frost.