From the sound, as much as the sight,
The woodsman knows a clean strike
As his axe head cleaves a slab of Maple,
Reveals an inner world of knots and whorls;
So it is with the poet,
With measured swings,
Starting within his soul,
Separates from the rounds of life
A slice of emotion to lie apart, bare,
A straight-grained truth
Ready to season
Ready to burn
Ready to heat open ears