axeman: await winter

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


© Frank Prem, 2017

October 2017 Poem #32: making noise

7 thoughts on “axeman: await winter

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