axe hits home

word of our arrival spread rapidly through the leaves
upsplash the babbling brook’s big mouth
trout and totem salmon
we walk for two miles up an old overgrown logging road
find a clearcut with madrone leaping towards the sun
where cedars and doug firs found their home
words written under the old cold stones in the creekbed
spoke of our coming to little birds who told the wind
I split wood out back with the wind behind me
hefting axe and splitting maul
weighing each in turn
the wind licks my earlobe in passing passion
as if to say
welcome, I hope you stay
I cleft a piece of my past in twain with each chop
axehead biting deep into the grain
a sharp hollow popping moan as the heart is rent apart
some say the last flight of the soul from that proud tree
whose stump speaks to me of skylines
little birds bring back pieces of the creek to my ears
the chickens peck and squabble
I have not heard a cell phone ring for three weeks now
axe hits home