After Work
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.

                   Gary Snyder