Two-Stroke Counsel

After checking the oil for the chain
and a quick pull on the starter rope
my father’s chainsaw rends the branches
No quarter given from the stainless steel teeth

The turning blade screams
its’ danger in unsure hands
regardless, his grip is firm and confident

Swift and experienced strokes
make short work of the green and sap-filled wood
Saw dust drifts across my arms

We stack the severed pieces
in neat and orderly piles
to be burned in the cold of winter

I envy the purposefulness of it all
so different than our relationship
The thorns and twisted branches of it

Impervious to the sharpest blade of logic
or an anatomy of feelings
wrongs and mistakes never acknowledged
and certainly never discussed

The blade salves uneasy wounds
as we work together in the acrid haze
of an oily blue two-stroke exhaust