The Man Splitting Wood in the Daybreak

The man splitting wood in the daybreak 
looks strong, as though, if one weakened, 
one could turn to him and he would help. 
Gus Newland was strong. When he split wood 
he struck hard, flashing the bright steel 
through the air so hard the hard maple 
leapt apart, as it’s feared marriages will do 
in countries reluctant to permit divorce, 
and even willow, which, though stacked 
to dry a full year, on being split
actually weeps—totem wood, therefore, 
to the married-until-death—sunders 
with many little lip-wetting gasp-noises.
But Gus is dead. We could turn to our fathers, 
but they help us only by the unperplexed 
looking-back of the numerals cut into headstones. 
Or to our mothers, whose love, so devastated, 
can’t, even in spring, break through the hard earth. 
Our spouses weaken at the same rate we do. 
We have to hold our children up to lean on them. 
Everyone who could help goes or hasn’t arrived. 
What about the man splitting wood in the daybreak, 
who looked strong? That was years ago. That was me.