the man who splits wood

he chops his wood

he chops it good

with his double edged axe

he never tires of doing so

but seldom misses

he breathes

he works

he takes a rest

he rises

his wood pile grows

he understands why he does it

stored next to his hearth

the new kindling wood

in thin but uneven pieces though layers

and his little chimney

will soon smoke up to the sky

translucent to the new moon rising

burning wood in earnest

in a small warm cabin in the woods

he lives an honest life

the way he sees it must be lived.

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