Rocket

He flashes past my window, hair flowing behind him. Flaming red hair like a rocket. He has his trailer full of wood, his billowing trail of dust, and his flaming red hair flowing behind him like a rocket. When the day is young he passes. When the day is done he returns with his trailer full of wood, shooting off into the distance like a rocket. Santa Claus in a yellow beanie no longer sits in the bar. No more belly-laughs. No more bad jokes. He sighs. They say, ‘You’ve lost a great friend.’ He knows. He watches them all fall around him. He goes to fill his trailer with wood and brings back another load. But each load could be his last. Like the trees he fells, so his friend’s fall. And like his trailer full of wood he brings them to the last pub. They have their last beer and he smiles. Then they disappear off into the distance with his trailer full of wood, his billowing trail of dust, and his flaming red hair flowing behind him like a rocket.It's a story of an old woodcutter I know. His friends are dead but he still gathers his wood. He waits for his time. Written October 22nd, 2001 © on Oct 22 2001 01:40 AM PST   0 • 1