Country Charm

He whittles on a wooden stick,

The faces coined by memory,

Their virtue, solid as a brick,

And not refined, self-consciously.

When drawing a map of the hill,

Of horse sense, and the earthy heart,

He gathers essence, as it spills,

Annotating it on his chart,

And boils down this country charm,

With stories gathered far and wide,

Tending to his own working farm,

Like all the farmers, far and wide.

The bounty of his orchard falls,

At the foot of a mountain top,

Where solid men repair stone walls,

And children harvest Mother’s crop,

Or on tree branches, soundly swing,

Or scout the pond for common frogs,

When women gossip while working,

And pass the day with dialogues.