To Me At The Pond

a handsaw chews hawthorne

with a Doberman’s bite

branches become sticks become brush

one as thick as a strong man’s arm

/

osh-kosh denim sips the sweat

of a toe-head’s labor

a gone man’s work gloves

devour his hands

/

(he wants to be just like him)

Nice work I say

Thanks drowned in gnashed pulp

the delightful scratch of bark on flesh

/

July smells new

lip smacking maple and pine

Spring grasps at the ground

sweet decaying incense

/

mud and leaf cling

to worn rubber soled sneakers

we pause together knowing

Big bass in there he says

/

trees are castles

guarding secret waters

the tension of reports and time sheets

memorials of industry and toil

/

tension is better served

between line and hook

post-holed in open space

pulling against the world

/

Keep cutting I tell him

wood dust spice serenades his feet

Always cut through the questions

Even when they hurt

/

I should add

If they put a desk in front of you

For God’s sake

Cut through that too