Inner Grain

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