He set the chisel, its sharp edge kissing a fissure.
Bending his knees in a half crouch
he drew the sledge hammer high
crashing it down,
beating the chisel deep, creating a crack
under the battery of his strength.
The heat of the sun made his body glisten and glow
as he pierced the oak,
steady and relentless.
The rough grey logs split,
bursting into pieces,
crumpled in a pile
at his feet.
I wrote this poem using the Wordle 59 prompt.