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