There is a piano now, here in the Manor. It arrived this morning. A little Baldwin spinet, birthed in the 1960s. It is a sturdy and game little being. We are learning each other.
The wood of the madrone burns with a flame at once
lavender and mossy green, a color you sometimes see in a sari.
Oak burns with a peppery smell.
For a really hot fire, use bark.
You can crack your stove with bark.
All winter long I make wood stews:
Poet to stove to woodpile to stove to
typewriter. woodpile. stove.
and can’t stop peeking at it!
can’t stop opening up the door!
can’t stop giggling at it
crazy as Han Shan as
Wittgenstein in his German hut, as
all the others ever were and are
Ancient Order of the Fire Gigglers
who walked away from it, finally,
kicked the habit, finally, of Self, of
(which is not, at last, estrangement)
That’s what it’s like here now, with this piano.