POETRY BOOK ONE: Poems People Like to Silently Move Their Lips While Reading
Angry Wound

A gash where someone’s axehead hit,
Across the trunk it splitting bit,
Parting bark and flinging chips;
Still weeps of sap and amber drips,
And asks the axeman why he quit.

For why, oh why, that single chop?
A tree he did not plan to drop,
Not bounding land, nor blazing trail,
Not marked for planks, nor lumber sale;
Just take a whack and stop.

Some six foot man found need to cower,
And lashed out at this branching tower;
Somehow the saying, “I was here,”
A human way of staying fear,
And exercising power.

|| My Poetry ||