In a Wide Birch Forest

Each day is stranger
than the rest:

In that way theyíre
all the same:

Iím an old man alone
with a frozen axe,
a curved wooden
handle planted
in dead weight:

Properly defined,
the handle is my leg,
the blade my hoary,
gruesome head:

Which to strike,
and what message
to resound:

Laughter falling
in the glen,
wolves howling
to be saved:

Come hither, friend:

My leg Iíll trade
for the legend
of the dawn,
my blade for your
warm pink tongue.

December 8, 2005

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