Words for the Chisel (collection)/Woodsman

by Genevieve Taggard

Woodsman

I think you draw out roses on the stem
Just by your love, because you look for them;

So a drab woman, when you look at her,
Puts on new leaves where never any were,

No matter how much winter she has seen
Or how much sorrow, you will make her green.

If she should stand a skeleton-tree for years
You would not give her up for all your fears,

But look at her as if she rustled soft
Multitudes of leaves held lightly up aloft,

Until her branches were an airy flush,
Color of second life, green burning bush.

And if the woman wrings her hands and shakes
Her thin leaves from her—bows her head and takes

The steep path down her root, to lie as seed
Under the ragged triumph of a weed,

And though her shell grows crooked, cold and brown
You let her go, and do not cut her down;

You let her go, content that she will come
Up from the earth in hymeneal bloom;

You do not cut her down—though all her sisters wear
Glittering leaves. You are as wise as air.