The Chainsaw (47)

//The Chainsaw (47)

The Chainsaw (47)

Gentle, where the chainsaw
Gouges the bark,
Throwing thick chips,
Ripping life asunder.

I work in the cool
December light
To clear the year.
Saplings sprung from pasture,

So much life! There’s
Nothing somnolent about
The saw, no effete snoring,
This hungry, smoking bastard.

I grip it tenderly,
Felling a black cherry,
A box elder maple,
A fork-branched mulberry.

How much to do
On a winter afternoon?
The saw gutters, grumbling,
Its silver chain sweetly oiled.

These trees will all be back—
Here, there, in that distant field.
New Years, it seems,
Is rarely ever so far.

By | 2019-12-23T22:05:09-05:00 December 23rd, 2019|Farm|2 Comments

About the Author:

Forrest Pritchard is a full-time sustainable farmer and New York Times bestselling author, holding a BA in English and a BS in Geology from William & Mary. Smith Meadows, his farm, was one of the first “grass finished” operations in the country, and has sold at leading farmers’ markets in the Washington DC area for two decades. Pritchard's books have received starred reviews from The Washington Post, Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, NPR, and more.

2 Comments

  1. Eliot Brenner December 24, 2019 at 2:29 pm - Reply

    Nice. I wonder if in a few weeks you might be pondering on the fractionally longer days.

    • Forrest Pritchard December 24, 2019 at 4:32 pm

      If I don’t, you can be sure the chickens will!

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