The Axe

The mighty axe swings,
muscles across the back
ripple as the axe finds its mark.
A rhythm develops, swing-chop,
swing-chop, soon the ancient tree
falls shaking the earth and
shouting its dying cry.

The man lovingly cuts wood
for his family to be safe and
give thanks for the fallen tree.
In its place, he plants two
saplings he’s raised
to give back to the forest
more than he took,
a wise lesson for us all.
He whispers his gratitude
for all nature that gives
to him, both working
in perfect harmony.


    • Yes, I always feel badly to see a tree cut down. We plant many trees each year here. If only others would realize how easy it is. Most cities give trees to people who are willing to plant and care for them. hugs, pat


    • Trisha, I visited your blog and read several of your poems but could not find where to leave a comment on any of them. Great read and I would have left comments if I could have. hugs, pat


    • Yes, I like that idea, too. Watching my neighbor cut down his forest has been a shattering experience for me. It is one thing to read about it; quite another to watch the distruction and hear the whine of chain saws and trucks hauling wood every day. I think of how many animals are dying in this process. Thanks for your visit and comments. hugs, pat


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