Thursday, October 7, 2010


You swing your axe and cleave me
fresh in two, smooth hardwood grown
in loving increments
with each rough-handled bucket of water,
each late-summer visit
from the rust-brown pruner’s saw. Those days
I longed for you to come, to lay cool hands
on callused bark and climb to sit
in the throne of my limbs, to wear
the crown I wove for you
from fistfuls of cyanide leaves.
I made you apples, divine fruits
their skins waxy-rough, each sweet
yellowed orb my child, my gift,
each gift of sublime splendour.
You swing your axe and cleave me
fresh in two, distracted now
by thoughts of frost, of bringing in the harvest.
Rachel Westfall
October 7, 2010


RachelW said...

For those following the warp and weave-- this poem is a response to Christopher. :0)

christopher said...

You can bet I will reply soon. :D

christopher said...

I hope this can keep going. You write of wanting my poet to pay attention to the one who writes for you. I write of believing that the one who writes for me can pay attention to your poet but he just doesn't, except maybe that's a lie he tells himself and he really is not capable of paying your poet that kind of attention. I bet your poet deserves it. She sounds simply ravishing.

Cyanide leaves, indeed. What planet has bitter almond blue leaves? You see how dangerous this is?

Cyanide Leaves

If I paid that kind
of attention, saw into
you as if my eyes
were new chain saw loud
and sharp as axes can be
when cared for like you
care for me, if I
was willing to work that hard
then I could hold you.

I can hew your wood
and gather your cyanide
leaves into great piles.
I believe like that
but it might be true I can't
even if I try.

RachelW said...

Christopher, I love it. :) I will try to keep it going, if the flow comes naturally. Let me think on it.