Woodcutting
written two weeks after the death of my father
When I think of him now
He is the woodcutter.
He had an eye
for a dying tree, and knew
When time had come.
wood chips fountain, sudden memory
the rise of a saw in the throat of a tree
The growl bears down and the muscled arm hardens
This is a memory
He is not, with me.
There is a bowl, my sister has it
Birch-grained wood, carved on my knees
He cut it from the living tree
And I waxed the ends, down upon my knees.
I wonder
Did the tree hurt as much, as I do
For thee?
My father: give me your sweating smile
That tells me the end of a good day's work
I will carry the wood and split every bundle
Pile it solid, for the snow will work
Careful and slow as it worked on you
Give me one more, I'll get it right
I wait for your answer
Alone, tonight.
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Copyright © 1989 Patrick Burton, some rights reserved.
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