Old Lumberjack Sonnet Poem by David Welch

You see him in photos of black and white,
standing atop logs drawn by big horses,
he wears a thick wool to stay winter's bite,
almost as this as the draft team's courses.
Then he's in a shack built in the forest,
a table with food made by the cookie,
no time for talking, and no time for rest,
has to shovel down the countless calories.
He'll burn them nothing big trunks with his ace,
he and another worker the cross-cut saw,
the days brings a strain to shoulder and back,
but it keep shim warm in weather so raw.
Romanticized photos, this I'll allow,
but more rewarding than what we do now…