axeman: the man becomes what he always was

it occurs to him

he
is the wood
the wood
of his contemplation

cut now
to suit
this grate
this hearth

burns warm
mellow
most of the time

burns hot
the fury of the heart
still
the rage

smolder
no

no need
for smolder now

he is this wood
he knows the way
to cut it
to slice

knows why
he cuts it
now

contemplates the state
of the diminishing pile
still
some challenge there

still some knotted gnarls
but
the fiddleback delights him
each time he exposes
a curved wave-pattern

so much to admire
in this
his diminishing pile

he is …

I am
the wood

green no more


© Frank Prem, 2017

October 2017 Poem #11: hitch a cloud ride

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