The Tree Cutters

You can’t see them and then you can,

like bear cubs in the treetops working for man,

hoisting one another with ropes and pulleys

that seem the clearest possible metaphor

for bright feelings vs. dark feelings,

as I lie in the grass below, hearing the big limbs fall,

like lightning exploding on the lake.

Once, a thick, dirty, bad-smelling sorrow

covered me like old meat: I saw a bloodstained toad,

instead of my white kitten; I saw shadows and misprision,

instead of my milk and pancakes. “Maybe God has gone away,”

my life moaned, hugging my knees, my teeth, my terrible pride,

though after a time, like a warm chrysalis, it produced

a tough, lustrous thread the pale yellow of onions.