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
Frank Prem Poetry 