i have the guise of woodsmen coursing through
my bloodstream. dressed in flannel, drenched in sweat
from morning harvests (birch and pine) my axe
is heavy; bones are cracking; muscles sore
as dragged and fallen trunks upon the ground
leave scribbles—poems read by goblins, spry
and marking breaks in lines with apples. here
my verse is etched upon the soil like
a tramp without a pen; a page; a voice—
just mud and sharpened sticks to write such verse
that woodsmen like myself can understand.
the silent wood protrudes the morning sky
like columns standing proud and tall upon
a marble landing; these reflect the dirt
and grass below; green reminds me of times
when gayly young i swung from branches firm
and unforgiving to my rocking dance.
the apple orchards by the path will lead
this man of nature back to pastures where
the farmhouse remnants lie awake but dead—
where tired hands laid lumber down but then
(so sadly) left before the barn was built
and crops were left unplanted, still as seeds.
i weep for man's unsteady to fame
among the grounds where cattle roam and wait
for slaughter; still i weep for days when i
could roam the wood and leave the lights of man.
the rhythmic beat from axes from my guise
are like a game of tennis with a net.