“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.