poem – The Morning

My breath still a mist
in the cold crops air.
My hands through my gloves are numb.

The axe that I hold
weather beaten and old
my sole companion this morn.

I walk all alone
down this road I have known
so very many mornings
before.

’til I come to my land
so majestic and grand
The place where I am reborn.

The song birds are singing
in the high tree tops
but the scampering squirrels
scold me.

I feel a slight morning breeze
and streaming down through the trees
the sun is just on its way.

On soft, spongy carpet
I walk through the woods
and I never have felt so
at peace.

So i throw down my axe
and lay down to relax …
I’ll not cut any wood today.