Pruning

Wielding a chainsaw on a winter afternoon

I cut wood from some trees I knew

Old familiar limbs that had bore me fruit

Yet growing in a form that wouldn’t suit

A new shape I carved out of wood and air

So that future crops may grow more fair

Wood chips flew and scented sweet,

Releasing aged sunlight which the trees did eat

2-7-2014

©2019 Lenny Wells