9
October
2008
October
2008
Wedge
WEDGE
The way the iron wedge penetrates the log,
forcing the tenuous hold of the oak’s fibers
to reluctantly give way
under my father’s stroke,
now allows him momentary rest,
now allows him to prop the weathered axe
against his canvas leg,
allows him to fish his stained handkerchief
from his back pocket to wipe the sweat
from his ridged brow now glowing in the tired sun.
But knowing tomorrow’s proximity,
the way it cinches the seconds out of today
until they expire, drained of all service,
knowing too the nearness of December’s bite,
the way she eats oranges and reds till all is white,
his shoulders slump and he sighs,
looks again to western sky,
then raises the axe again.
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