clearing

you stay
unwashed for a day
or two, burdened with
what you see.
the field is wide
and needs attention.
a storm lingers
like anger
over the far clumps
of brown hills.
your small plot
of rolling land
whispers hoarsely
at you, for hands
to mend it's ways,
smooth it's ruffled
brow of brush
and bent trees, but
the first swing tells
you that your axe
needs to be sharpened.