In a Wide Birch Forest
than the rest:
In that way they’re
all the same:
I’m an old man alone
with a frozen axe,
a curved wooden
handle planted
in dead weight:
Properly defined,
the handle is my leg,
the blade my hoary,
gruesome head:
Which to strike,
and what message
to resound:
Laughter falling
in the glen,
wolves howling
to be saved:
Come hither, friend:
My leg I’ll trade
for the legend
of the dawn,
my blade for your
warm pink tongue.
December 8, 2005
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