I watched him swing the axe in the sun, 
split wood into fine and finer pieces, 
the leaves like gold coins scattered at his feet, 
his hair silvered, shining, a bright thing
that would catch a crow’s eye, or a daughter’s, 
who had searched all her life for him. Raising 
his arms over his head, swift he brought them 
down, and the wood crackled and startled into air
like birds in sudden flight. Watching, 
I learned the strength of him; 
it frightened me, too, the power of him 
who could make the quiet wood fly,
who could gather the flown and fallen wings
and turn them into flame.