as i am bringing in logs for the wood stove

i ask martha to bring the hatchet from the shop

the red-handled hatchet, there is kindling to be split 

for this is the first fire of the season

~

coming back from the shop, sans hatchet, she says

i can't find it, it isn’t there. it’s there, i say

did you look under the workbench? yes, she says 

it isn’t there—and she says it definitively

~

i stop my task, trudge over to the shop

with a somewhat martyr-ish gait, muttering

search all the wrong places, none of the right places

cannot find it, though i know it’s there

conclude, it must be in the house after all

in the utility room, in the cabinet under the sink 

where i keep the poker, dust pan and bellows

where i must have put it last spring, after the last fire

~

i trudge back to the house, take off my wet boots

look in the cabinet under the sink, find the bellows

dust pan and poker, but no red-handled hatchet

of course it isn't there, it's in the shop 

where i left it last spring—put the boots back on

sigh mightily, trudge across the yard to the shop

look in all the places where it isn't, none where it is

and i swear i’m tempted to sigh once more

but martha isn’t there to hear it, but sigh anyway

as it’s my nature to be bear life’s hardships volubly

~

what i do find is a shingle-splitting hatchet

which is too heavy for the task at hand

another shingle-splitting hatchet even heavier

a double-bladed axe, and a splitting maul

but there is, definitively, no red-handled hatchet

there is, however, a smaller, lighter hatchet 

which would do nicely, be perfect

for splitting kindling, one that feels right

perhaps even better than the red-handled hatchet

and i wonder why i never used it before

it has the proper heft and balance, the edge 

is good, the head secure, the handle smooth 

from years of use, with just a hint of . . . wait

wait a minute, are those traces of red paint 

~

couples forgive one another their foibles

idiosyncrasies, irritations and tones of voice 

that really should be unforgivable, i show martha

the hatchet that used to have a red-handle

martha, being martha, takes it in stride

not a hint, well, maybe a hint, of— i told you so

~

she returns to the kitchen, to the soup she is making

having better things to do than make a fuss 

about a hatchet, red-handled or not

and i have kindling to split, a fire to build

i also have some thinking to do regarding my sighs

my martyr-ish gait, my trudging steps

my ill-concealed muttering, my tone of voice

the attitude that defines me when i face the least adversity