Firewood Poem by Lance Miller

Firewood

Early on winter Saturdays
before day light,
I would hear my fathers,
gruff voice' time to get up
there is work to do'.My
brothers and I would
groan and get out of
our warm beds.

All of us would get into the
truck. The smell of gas, chain oil
and biscuits in the air.

Dad would run the chain
saw, we would load the truck.
How is it that with one man sawing
and four boys loading we
could not keep up?

We would work in till lunch time
then sit around the truck
eating baloney sandwich's

Admiring the huge pile
of wood in the truck bed.

The smell of tree sap in the air
sticky hands, tired backs and
a job well done.