The wood pile

It was a cord of maple, cut and split 
And piled—and measured, four by four by eight. 
And not another like it could I see. 
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it. 
And it was older sure than this year's cutting, 
Or even last year's or the year's before. 
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it 
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis 
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle. 
What held it though on one side was a tree 
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop, 
These latter about to fall. I thought that only 
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks 
Could so forget his handiwork on which 
He spent himself, the labor of his ax, 
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace 
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could 
With the slow smokeless burning of decay. 

Robert Frost

The pile was at Charlie's where I went to check the post.  I walked there and back but was cut in two by the cold wind.