A maul is not an axe;
an axe is not a maul.

One is for splitting,
the other for felling.

Of course to trees
such distinctions
are immaterial.

Walnut rounds
scattered on grass
stare into juniper
scratching the sky—

tall pallbearers
shiver in wind,
whisper above
dead medallions,
unblinking eyes.

The handle I hold
like a divining rod;

metal blade forged
by inchoate words,

honed on grinding
letters of precision.