Winter On a Farm

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A pile of dead branches lay on the ground, Once proud, now forgotten and dead. I drag them, with the tractor, off the side of the hill, And dump them by the side of the shed. Then the chainsaw comes out, all sharpened and shined, Filled with black oil and fuel. Two hours of chopping into cylindrical blocks, This chainsaws a perfect wood tool. And the axe and the splitter come out for a play, And my back is beginning to tire. Finally I have a pile of splintered up logs, All ready to light a warm fire. Finally I relax, staring into these flames, Hypnotised by their whimsical charm. And I'm happy and free, just a little bit sore, A winter's day on the family farm.

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Kim Rodrigues

Date: 8/23/2016 9:31:00 PM

Delightful, Lewis!

Probir Gupta

Date: 8/14/2016 6:27:00 AM

And we are lucky to view surreal poems in the flames preceded by the formerly pride in the second line ... very well written ...

Lewis Raynes
Date: 8/16/2016 8:07:00 PM

Thanks Probir

Beverly Read

Date: 8/14/2016 12:00:00 AM

I love this. I grew up on a farm, and live in the mountains now where wood cutting is important. Everyone has a chainsaw, even my girl friends. This poem speaks to me and I like the words and the rhythm of it.

Lewis Raynes
Date: 8/14/2016 12:38:00 AM

Thanks Bev, I wrote this about 30 min after doing exactly this. :)