I have been cutting out dead wood,
pulling out all that is dry and rotten.
Some pieces crumble in my hand,
some need a sharp blade, to cut
through wiry sinews.
I am letting in air and light,
penetrating the dark centre.
Branches, weaved and twisted.
They've been cocooned that long
they have forgotten how to breathe.
My fingers are creating space,
leaving only what is good wood.
Hands cut and scraped,
I step back and observe
A deep breath.
My work is done.