The Woodpile
In the slow-go, wind-blow of the early November afternoon
I walk down to the woodshed, and begin to saw.
At first it is slow going. The trunks are lead under my hands,
Branches unyielding to my push, pull, push, pull
A rocking horse tearing them limb from limb.
Then, gradually, it happens. I feel the bark beneath my grip
Soften, dilate, until I am sawing backwards into myself.
I see the hours, spread like tree-rings, circling away from me
A screen on which I am played out, my words, my movements.
It is like my mind is being halved by the blade, I am spilling out
My thoughts, my memories, my ideas, pooling
In great lakes amongst the sawdust at my feet.
And then, suddenly, you are underneath the knife.
Like a magician, I have sawn you in half
(All stand please, cue rapturous applause)
And I probe, a tentative surgeon, with infinite care
Amongst your innermost meanings, dating your tree rings.
I eke out your ragged imperfections, patching you up
(Well, as carefully as I can with a wood saw.)
And then you are branch again. And I am here,
Neat, sliced logs halved at my feet
And I am left feeling curiously whole.