As some people know, I have kept a journal for some time. Often, the journal is a simple record of my daily life--or, more recently, far-less-regular recollections that are spliced together whenever I remember to do so. Sometimes, I use it to work out ideas for papers, books (yes, there are a couple in embryo in the well-inked wombs of my journals), and stories. From time to time also, I include poetry.
I had had an image in my mind for some time, and last night, I finally got it out onto the page:
He walks
Hands in his pockets
Shoulders hunched against the wind
Head down
Eyes scanning the ground ahead
Looking for places to put his feet
Each long, slow step the swing of an axe
Biting into the distance
He has yet to travel
Footfalls thudding dully on the pavement
In rhythm
Unyielding
Inexorable
Rushed.
What will happen if he misses his swing?
What will happen if he
When he
Cuts all the way through?
What sort of wood will be
Yielded,
If it can be called yielding
When prompted by many blows of an axe?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment