Poem for her 967

Something yet Nothing

Brrrr of a chainsaw

Not ours

We used saws with hands

Angel wings of her hair

The cards floated my way

The game was on going

That sound was out there

A storm had passed us by

Trees down

We'd see a pile of wood soon

The Neighbor who was using the chainsaw

Always left a gift for us

We did saw our own

The old handsaw way

They had a lot to clear

We had a lot as well

Just standing tall soon to bare fruit

Which we shared with the chainsaw user

Canned in jars full of flavor

Like the Grilled Cheese we ate for lunch

Happy Birthday Babe,

Charles.