by Boxer Wyze

Created on: April 03, 2009   Last Updated: March 02, 2010

He drops his ax,



His blood slows its pace
As he wipes a denim-covered forearm
across a sunburned face.

The smell of wood dust stings his nose
The returning birds replace echoes
Of chain saw's growl and the ax's thump,
Of chop and crack of limb and stump.

He fills his lungs
With the forest's perfume
And thinks of all he calls his own
Every bit of it won by muscle and mind
and sweat and blood and bone.

These trees have been his personal savior,
Indeed they are his life
Sustaining everything he loves;
his children and his wife.

Through winter's brutal darkness
And summers wilting burn
These towering sentinels held out all
He was willing and able to earn

With fingers near as gnarled as wood
He takes up the ax again
And rests his muscled back against
An oak tree's mighty stem

And for a moment reaches out
A caressing and gentle hand
As if acknowledging the coming wound
From where his blade would land.

He feels the life within the bark
And connects with it deep down,
Then with a joyful laugh he shouts
And swings the ax around!

Learn more about this author, Boxer Wyze.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.