March 12, Paradise Valley

by Marc Beaudin

The ax finds its way
every time
through the flesh of each log
The halves open and lie down
on either side of the chopping block
w/o remorse
w/o sorrow
The ax is w/o guilt
w/o pride
The sound does not disturb the deer
browsing in the last of the sunlight
beneath the spruce and lodgepole mountainside
bathed in alpenglow
The year’s first robin visits briefly
disappears into the shadows of the willow
The first beer of the night
is so perfectly cold
& w/in easy reach
fits the curve of my glove
as well as the ax
& I realize:
This is what they meant
when they said
All the Heaven we could ever need
is right here. Right now.

©2009, Marc Beaudin

About marcbeaudin

Poems, plays, books, roads, trails.
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