Country Charm

He whittles on a wooden stick

The faces coined by memory

The virtues, solid as a brick

And not refined self-consciously.

When drawing a map of the hill

Of horse sense and the human heart

He gathers essence as it spills

And annotates it on his chart.

He boils down this country charm

With stories gathered far and wide

Tending to his own working farm

In the seat of the countryside.

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

As women gossip while working

Passing the day with dialogues.