Fall 2011



I Held The Axe,

Nance Van Winckel

knowing it’s not 
the right tool against 
the tulips, the wild blooming 
field. But still . . . 
still loving its heft. 
The blue morpho lowers a wing; 
the sky comes down. I could 
wound what’s wounded me; 
that blade keeps its blaze. I’m the lengths 
it would go, the aim of effort 
in a tight little palm of promise. 
To stay those blooms. 
Tulips’ petals of tears 
in the mind. Or to stand— 
a minute? a lifetime?­— 
as a threat until the threat’s 
passed. To stand among these 
sweet young grasses 
just beginning to sprout 
over the trouble 
and through the heart.


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