To the shore of your little Shenandoah
thunderous noise down from Mount Superior
swirled in the boiling mist that was you
flexed muscles, lifted, poised
thwack! swung that ax
into the hardwood of circumstance
danced in the acrobatic light of force
defiant and narrative-free
mysterious verse spooled in his arms.
You, subordinate without recourse
small and numerous as doubt watched
as he, fearsome and bearded, swung on.
When one cataclysmic day
he yielded to a pulverizing
ax even he could not lift
bade you see it one last time his way,
whispering of flawed steel
and unmerciful surfaces,
to look on his final act of final play,
take full measure of fearsome’s yield
to the swooping blade you had loved.
28 November 2011
for Scott