Chop Wood, Carry Water

She did not know about Zen
and Enlightenment then.
She was chopping wood
To feed the smoky potbelly stove
In the two small rooms
Her family’s refuge
From homelessness.
She was 11 years old
A serious girl with thick glasses
Her smock, patched together
From an old bed sheet,
Hung loosely on her thin body
Her small feet in clogs
Carved from wood
with grey sacking tops.
She swung the sharp axe high
Splitting one log after another
Taking care to make enough kindling
To light the reluctant fire…
The wood was damp,
Belching green smoke,
And paper, scrap paper was scarce.
She would fry grated potatoes
without grease
On the black smoky stove top-
She called them beggars-
To be eaten
With a stew cobbled together
From beets and onions.
Meat was scarce.
It was a long, cold winter
The year the War ended.