1. Shavasana

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Between the still, slow strokes of the drawknife
there is no room for thought at all
no room for beads of sap to squeeze
through this thin flannel
and make it to the other side

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Yogis call this shavasana:
the perfect meeting of spine and mat
is the blade’s bevel licking the surface of the oak
with its lion’s tongue
pale curls flowing over laps
silent and secret as song

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2. Warrior I

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Blisters are beads, too: precious garnets
of hardening spume
collected during each too-harsh stroke
of maul on froe

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See, it is good to sweat, to slice
a log into its elements:
xylem, phloem, bark
or sapwood from heartwood
air pockets from their brothers
nightgown from crisp flesh

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3. Mountain

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So that years ahead
crawling along shaded moors
shoeless, no shift but moonlight
to be found
you may feel that chill, breathe,
and know—even now, friend,
after all this—
there is still more to slough off

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