the splitting axe
is unaware
it rises
and descends
bites and holds
or bounces off
there is only
the wood
only
the reduction
from that
down
into this
the splitting axe
the swinging blow
is unaware
the axe-man
meets his rhythm
it flows like water
in the arc
of swing and strike
it does not require
thought
his mind
though …
his mind is in
another place
where the width of the round
upon the block
beneath the axe
is a height
of tree
with a bird perched
at the apex
is a hole in the ground
and a scatter of roots
perpendicular
after toppling
yet
standing taller
than he is
is a length
that is a measure
in board feet
in stacked cords
in winters
the swing of the splitting axe
is unaware
the axeman
is a grunt
an expelled sigh
of his own breath
and silence
© Frank Prem, 2017
September 2017 Poem #4: a bomb for Jong-un to share with the Donald
Frank Prem Poetry 