Let's write about: the woodcutter.
I chopped some wood today for the first time since I lived with my parents. Which, as my dad would happily attest to, wasn't that often to begin with.
It's pretty fun though, and rather satisfying. When the logs split properly. When they don't, it just hurts.
Anyway, looking forward to a winter of sitting by the fire.
His axe is shoulder high,
There's fire in his eyes;
Trees tremble when he walks,
Squirrels scatter when he talks.
His home is always warm
During the fiercest storms,
And the wood pile he's made
Just never seems to fade.
But a question for you:
Whatever will he do
With all his vaunted brawnWhen the forest's all gone?