It’s not like felling a tree, I’ve gathered,
an accumulation of blows
the more disciplined and precisely delivered,
the sooner the accomplished task.
I am not the wielder of the axe, for example;
I’m more like the tree or both or neither
and when it finally comes down,
I won’t be there to mark it.
Yet, it must be attended to, it bars the way
or perhaps the topmost branches
hold the key to my awakening,
the elusive revelation and relationship,
the axe blows merely knocks upon my door,
my best friend wishing me
in the bright green sunlight
to come outside and play.
O child of God, the purpose of conjecture
is to keep sharp the axe.