Trees for winter
To the end of the path I go,
I cannot push in the mud or ice or snow
And today I push alone
Wishing and cursing for my wheels to turn
At my every whim to be dependent on no one.
It is now late summer and the chill of fall
Fills the air in the morn hours before sun can melt the
Dew that is still too young to make the ice.
But, it will come.
I watch at trees so tall
Fall,
The chirping-chopping of the axe
Fading in the wind, victim of the chainsaw
Wailing it’s tune of impending doom.
I wonder as the tree sways a bit if it shivers from the cold
Or from fear, after all it has a mind
Or it would not have picked such a nice meadow
To spread it’s wings.
Now,
Hurt,
Falling,
Deep,
No longer a perch for the meadowlark
Or haven for a squirrel,
It soon will be nothing
But winter fodder
Chopped in lengths and stacked in cords;
All left split to last it affords
The iron stove and fireplace bare
Now filled with wood that fill the air
With peace and warmth and love and care.
