On the Path

The wooded path between the road and lake
Demands a tending after winter's thaw
I headed out with gloves and axe and saw--
The sort of thing we do for order's sake.

I startled up a grouse spread in the sun
He couldn't fly, the victim of a fox;
He scuttled off to hide in weeds and rocks
And fuse his form to where such work gets done.

And, yes, my face and hands are scarred with age
And bitterness has holed up in my heart

And I'm no stranger to consuming rage
And my thoughts keep me distant and apart

But now I know my death is incomplete:

I still weep for the wounded at my feet.