The long lever of it’s hickory handle, its hafted head a wedge of steel.
The sudden split of weathered wood and your wife watching from the window sill.
I wonder were you conjuring the wild west, an axe worth it’s weight in gold.
Or were you thinking of Aristotle, the axe a symbol for the soul.
Maybe it was a bright new poem that spun like a ballerina in your brain.
She stops when you stop and she waits, for you to swing your axe again.
Or maybe you were painting France, or New York, or Russia, in your mind.
Scanning landscapes for the breadcrumbs a younger you had left for you to find.
Perhaps on that blazing afternoon as your heart raged wild in it’s cage,
you were thinking only of your father, and the train wreck of his final day.
But then the axe went cold and strange and heavy along its slow smooth curve.
And you began to float, your flesh on fire, as you spoke your last poem upon the earth.
(An involuntary metaphor for your mind, having only meant to tend the tool.)
“I am going to sharpen the axe before I put it up dear”.
And so off you went, death’s newest blue-eyed pioneer.
In memory of, and tribute to, my favorite poet, e.e. cummings
October 14, 1894 – September 3, 1962