Seldom is he satisfied with our work
Although we gather all the wood we can
He surveys our wretched toil with a smirk
We always fall short of his careful plan
He reminds us that winter is cruel
And insists that fire is ravenous
He seems to think each of us is a fool
Dismissing our complaints as fatuous
I watch my sister sweat, my mother cough
My limbs ache, and my back threatens to snap;
At our striving, he is likely to scoff
In his mind, we are all beneath his cap
The dry bones of a forest, we carry
As they burn, will his heart become merry?
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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