the clearing

with hard
even strokes you
hack away
at the foliage,
the leaves,
the branches
and trees
that block your
day.
you slice
through the vines,
swinging madly
with loose arms
at the weeds.
this jungle keeps
coming,
never ceasing
to amaze you,
but you get
through it.
you are good with
the sharp blade,
this machine you sit
at, writing
your way into
a clearing.