On Writing

What is there to say
of the small plot
of my work?

It stands collected,
waiting quietly
like a forest
of dumb giants.

Some confused
whittled wood,
trees trimmed,
trimmed
to no exact.

Peeled bark, healed,
scabbed, roots upturned,
branches hacked.

A few I left to grow
to see how tall
they could get
with no guidance.

But this is no way to live.
And so I’ll take an axe.
Start swinging

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