chopping wood
It’s the snow falling for me. It’s the woodsmoke for me. It’s the silence for me. It’s the crack of the trees the sound of the wind…
It’s the snow falling for me.
It’s the woodsmoke for me.
It’s the silence for me.
It’s the crack of the trees
the sound of the wind before I see it
the near slip and fall
smile and laugh at self for me.
It’s the axe falling for me,
the near miss of the blade for me.
I need to do something to prove myself out here so I balance the piece of wood on its side and widen my stance, knowing I’ll be sore tomorrow. I line up the blade, decide where I’m trying for. I might miss. I might miss. I widen my hold on the handle, then adjust to what feels more comfortable. I lift it high and try. A swing and a split.
I need to do something to prove myself to myself but I can only follow the path that’s been plowed, otherwise I’d be thigh-deep half-buried, find me in spring when things begin to drip and dry. I walk the path down, the cracking of trees a warning, like any minute a frozen branch could take me out and I think I’d be ready so I smile up into the cold air and listen.