A Poem called "Me, the Temporary Lumberjack"

Me, the Temporary Lumberjack

I trudge outside in the darkling Winter day,
My face resolute, hard, determined.
It is cold; I am wearing a big, black coat,

And my face is numbed and pale.

The wind is gusting as I stride down the slope
To the place where we chop our lumber.
I near the old, torn-up splittingstump,

And I reach down under the verandah.

I pull out the tool for imminent labours:
A logsplitter, massive, heavy,
Worn hard from repeated use.
Just below the blade, it's all chewed-up -
Strikes violently overshot. 

I lay the logsplitter by the old stump,
And I lift up one of the logs nearby

Forearm straining, wrist bending - breaking -
I plant it firmly on the stump.

I pick up the logsplitter again,
Gracefully, I turn it in my hand.
I enjoy its weight, its thick, hardwood heft.
I swing an arc through air to be cleft.

Now I steady myself and lift the splitter;
My hands meet at the bottom of the handle
As I reach the top of the swing... before
I pull down my weapon to strike.

CRACK.

The log splits in two jagged chunks.
Like shrapnel, each side flies off to the side.

'A perfect cut,' I think, as I stagger,
Stiff-backed, slow, to the big stack on the right.

I repeat this process with more big logs,
I do it over and over again.
Some are stubborn and knotted - I get stuck.
Some are too deformed to cut.

After two or three logs have been chopped,
My back, of course, begins throbbing.
But I keep going, relishing my strength
As I heave and hack, heave and hack, unstopped.

Minutes pass... Despite the cold, I begin to sweat.
Wood dust, wood grime are infused in my spit;
I spit in disgust, but the taste lingers.

When I stand erect after I’ve filled the barrow,
My back muscles are properly aching,
And I know it is time to stop.

I strut and stumble around my wooden midden.

The look on my face is rough-hewn and fierce.

Topographically, it strongly evokes
A gnarled chunk of old-growth, harshly sheared.

…

After I’ve finished one of these sessions,
And I’m lumbering about with a sore back
I am often taken aback
By my reflection in the window.

I see an odd, effeminate young man,
Replete with loose cheeks, neotonous
Absence of cheekbone definition,
And a narrow, slightly recessed chin.

Was this the Nordic powerhouse of ten minutes past?