I awake with chain saw eyes
measuring fallen trees:
to die of thirst,
dividends of drought
thick torsos with loose bark,
little brush to stack
to clear for grass,
to cover quail from hawks—
stove wood to haul and split
to hold the cold at bay
outside the door
into chimney smoke
and they are beautiful
in death, limbs reaching up
lengths cut clean
with sharp eyes
like people to heaven
begging notice, a chance
for purpose yet
and I am looking,
measuring like a tailor
around burls and forks—
old habits stumbling
with weak knees
in and out of dreams
come wintertime.
drycrikjournal 