The weight of an ax borrowed from the past with a new handle cast, sits heavy on my shoulder
Though spotted with rust it carries no dust, its blade made by a generation far older
It carries the nicks of erring flicks and ancient sticks, in these forests grown
Sharpened on a grinding wheel, I hear it squeak and squeal, in a rasping scratchy groan
I carry it by my side, a grandfathers pride, now an adopted child that I call my own
Stumps long dead, where giants once bled, amputations to make a home of wood and stone
With a machete his brother, longer than any other, I cut my path through thick brush and vines
Both made of steel, no pain they feel, their cry a song amongst the pines
Hand grip of wood, cuts their brothers where they stood, a house built on cellulose bones
A traitor to its roots, a man recruits, the aid of wood handles on the tools he owns