Issue 8 | Winter 2011

One Hand

Reaching into the bush, separating
healthy branch from what is
overgrown, holding steady what
the other hand, with saw, will cut.
The sky is blue, leaves are pale
green in the drenched spring sun
and that one hand holding the saw
belongs to the world—firmly
gripping what is useful for its work—
and the other belongs just to me,
one hand figuring what is healthy
and strong and what is unnecessary,
and then one holding on with a tight grip
to what it is that nobody wants.

Filed under: Poetry