The inveterate stump splits
sere flakes of tree-bark
falling upon the frigid grass
wet from rainclouds
settling in the yard.

A wedge placed in a foible
metal rusted from years of use
a crack running
down weathered outer layers
to a hollow center
filled with refuse.

I am handed the axe
I feel its weight
suitable for the work
the old man has begun
whose grey hands
can no longer complete.

We pick up the pieces, his back groans and clicks
rain continues to pelt my hood
I mention Thoreau
He just stares
with indifference to the gloom
my boots are soaked with the mud of the day
I put the tools in the shed for another time.