The wood pile grows with the rhythm of work,
The swing of the mall and the pop of the split,
A laborer's song of muscle and bone
While the mind is set free to wander.
I failed not only the soul behind the mountain
But also the moon in the trees.
With the rhythm of work the outer world stills,
Swinging the mall to reach heartwood.
Tell me you're there, calling me back
From the ring of cold steel in the grain.
