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The rusty rasp

Calling back the gleaming edge.

Done, I stand and

Shuffle outside.

I heft the ax, and

Gaze out from the black porch.

Wafting up are the smells of

Greenness and wood and smoke.

I cradle the ax, and prepare

The wood goes on the

Block. Roughly, I swing and

Break handle-fibers.

Gently, and the log

Dents little. Using

Rhythm and aim, the wood

Dances to my tune.

Birch and beech, cherry and maple.

The ax is quick enough to split them.

My father tells me of their

Qualities as I hack ineptly.

I grow tired soon and

Drop on the ground to

Rest. My father takes my place;

He is smooth as a wave, and I feel

Like a novice.

During this, my father and I

Trade conversation. We talk,

Deeply, without distraction.

Not many talk like this.

When you’re busy and tired,

Little is worth attention.

When little is worth seeing,

You notice the important things.

My break is over, and I smile.

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The following comments are for "Leaning Into The Blows"
by Washer

simply Frosty
I really liked this piece, finding that it reminds me of something a teenaged Robert Frost might have written. You do an excellent job of conveying the moment without having to spoon feed it to the reader. Splendid poem.

( Posted by: Bartleby [Member] On: May 12, 2003 )

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