I love to see boards lying on the ground in early spring:

The ground beneath them is wet, and muddy—

Perhaps covered with chicken tracks—

And they are dry and eternal.

This is the wood one sees on the decks of ocean ships,

Wood that carries us far from land,

With a dryness of something used for simple tasks,

Like a horse’s tail.

This wood is like a man who has a simple life,

Living through the spring and winter on the ship of his own desire.

He sits on dry wood surrounded by half-melted snow

As the rooster walks away springily over the dampened hay.