“Oh” to the West Wind

Well I suppose you are expecting thanks

For that black cherry tree, or half a tree

You laid across my field two nights ago.

 

I realize now you must have seen me cut

And roughly plane cap’lin from God knows where:

“Its lumber local, something with a story.”

 

They always say it is the thought that counts;

Forgive me though, if I seem less than thrilled

About your gift so wantonly given.

 

You see I’m not that kind of farmer yet

My chainsaw is still in its Christmas box

I have no uncle or cousin I could call.

 

The grass is high, the garden full of weeds.

What would I do right now with a cord of wood?

Or hundred feet of board too green to work?

 

Your unsought gift was right and true, and pure, but

Before you go knock down my other trees

Won’t you just ask if I would like them please.