After Work by Gary Snyder

The shack and a few trees

float in the blowing fog  

I pull out your blouse, 

warm my cold hands      

     on your breasts. 

you laugh and shudder 

peeling garlic by the       

     hot iron stove. bring in the axe, the rake, 

the wood  

we'll lean on the wall 

against each other 

stew simmering on the fire 

as it grows dark

             drinking wine.