City-boy With a Chainsaw

In a finger of snow patched woods

I found a monster dead oak,

With no punk,

The trunk forty inches across,

My winter salvation,

If I could bring it down

Without killing myself in the process.

I studied it from all angles,

Its thick perfect branches

Reaching symmetrically out, perfectly balanced,

Grown from wild times.

A tooth at a time, I sharpened my blade.

From an extension ladder

I dropped two branches from one side

To weight it in the direction I wanted it to fall.

My sixteen inch Stihl was too small to cut it through,

But I whittled away and brought it down as planned.

I stood on the back of the old felled giant,

Half a winter’s heat from one tree.

Graduation of a city-boy with a chainsaw.