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
the transformation.
A deep breath.
My work is done.
12 comments:
Oh but it's never really done. Just done for now. ;-)
A nice positive piece. It's all good wood. :)
Fireblossom, yes just for now. :-)
Unknowngnome, thankyou. :-)
Good to see you both. x
Very enjoyable poem.
Well Done! I like the message within your poem.
saturn return?
Plants and human being can be very much alike in the way your words describe here. Beautiful piece.
Thanks everyone. :-) It is good to see you. x
i like this a lot. the dead wood is a strong image and you develop it well. pruning we think of trees but not internal work. there's a power in simplicity and i really think you nailed this.
Thanks Ed. :-)
Good to see you.
It is a neverending process; just gotta remember to do it once in the while.
Very nice.
Good to see you Goatman, and thanks. :-)
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