A sleeper, they used to call it—
four passes with the giant round saw
and you had a crosstie, 7 inches by 9 of white oak—
at two hundred pounds nearly twice my weight
and ready to break finger or toe—
 

like coffin lids, those leftover slabs,
their new-sawn faces turning gold and brown
as my own in the hot Virginia sun,
drying toward the winter and the woodsaw
 

and on the day of that chore
I turned over a good, thick one
looking for the balance point
 

and roused a three-foot copperhead,
gold and brown like the wood,
disdaining the shoe it muscled across,
 

each rib distinct as a needle stitching leather,
heavy on my foot as a crosstie.