I am the wood
and I am
the axe
I am the man
charged
with cutting through
a mountain
and I hew
and I chop
I reduce the round
by slice and by chip
and by break
through the rough opened up
in the grain
I touch the bark
run my hand over splinters
that I have raised
through the rain down
of my blows
and I find I am moved
by the feel
of rough
by the colours
that I exposed
almost sorrow
almost
I sorrow
but
another round goes up
on the splitting block
and I swing
in the act of striking new blows
to reduce the thing
to a smaller thing
to make me warm
once
before burning
then I lay them down
in a last act
sedate in rows
that wait on the winter
as I
sedate now
await winter
~