Kindling

You gone, i thought to look
for warmth in the pith of trees,
so i went to the chopping-block,
brought axes edge to kiss
soft, knotty-hearted pine
whose sinews might warm mine.

Matchsticks rasp, blue chuff:
the fine shaved kindling caught,
curled into twenty fists
that cupped their fingers shut,
till fire fastened to the wood
and wooed it close and hot,
and soon the room was warm enough
but i was not.

I wish I wrote this poem. I found it by chance outside of a professor's office. I have no idea who wrote it. Anyone know? Please let me know.