Panpsychist with Ax

Splitting
wood
I break the amber gray log
apart
in a clean stroke, grunt
and find
beetle grubs slumbering
amid
2 hidden branches
neatly 90º skewed
and,
I know so little

that I cannot say
if they were half formed things, babes held to the heartwood breast,
then dead
in the womb.
Or,
old, broken and
enveloped scars
the tree held within her
long
even months after she was felled.

Wait long— the day is long!

See the flickering lights in a coming dark suede and I
know so little
cannot nod to Venus,
or galaxies like M81 and M82
(a categorical nomenclature that denies the personal or
personable).
Those poor,
bright beings
I forget their names, and in a fit of social anxiety
to avoid embarrassment,
contamination,
I pretend I don’t see them
and hurry inside.

Days away from society and strife
6 feet apart at home
waiting for trilliums, waiting for
suet consciousness
and waiting
to get good
with my ax.