How like axes, spoken words are.
The sharpened cleaving edge,
Bright gleaming in the sun,
Swung in a wide and sweeping arch,
Strikes the wooden heart of silence,
Strikes deep to reveal the hidden core,
Kept safe, before, behind a wall of bark
Before the honed edge did find its fatal mark,
And striking thus sends out a ring of shock,
As if a wave of horses racing away,
Were named North, South, East, and West.
Outward, ever outward, from the fresh cut they race,
And multiply a thousand fold as they run,
At the breaking of the stillness,
At the cutting of the bark.
*****Copyright 2012 Gordon Kuhn*****