One of the Widow Wyile’s woodpiles
grows as the other diminishes
the beaverdam heap
becomes stacks
piled as high
as she can reach
stretching from
the tips of her toes
and rows deep
with spiders and squirreled
away beech nuts
in the charming
crooked
woodshed
unless
of course
it topples into a
perfectly
lined floor
of rows