Ashes of an Old Poem, Sparks for a New Poem?

Nights, I built fires from the wood
You did not chop.

--MD


This opening sentence has come back to mind recently, and I've been trying to recall the rest of this poem that I'd written in, oh, Winter Quarter 1980 -- in Carl Dennis' 46B: Intro to Poetry Class.  I used to recite the poem to myself as I walked to and from campus, so the memory may be deep and so retrievable.  The setting was a trip down a river, two characters and two canoes, a definite lack of appreciation on the one hand, and a distinct inability to make headway that mattered on the other.  Rocks and rapids, of course, provided the physical obstacles.  I recall a class discussion of the poem, actually, that lasted a good amount of time, which was both alarming and encouraging to me, as my classmates debated the dynamics between the characters.  I was so shy then and speechless; Prof. Dennis assured me afterwards that the lengthy discussion itself, more than the particular comments, was a mark of success in that my poem had held attention.  That was kind.

I can't seem to find the old poem itself, which is only surprising after all these years if you understand just how many manuscripts and notebooks and what-have-you I've kept year after year after year.  Which is part of the problem, no doubt.

I guess I could or should write a new poem.  Maybe I'll pick up from where the memory has left off . . . .

Or, maybe I'll leave that fragment alone.  Let the one image stand.