BILL PRINGLE

PUSHING PAINT


farmpainting

What are you doing up here
I heard a voice so plain and clear.

An old growth forest has no voice.
No vocal cords to question my choice.

Perhaps my mission was not so harmless.
To take a chainsaw into the realm of the armless.

Was trying to find a burl to carve.
Enough to awaken their voice so starved.

Had I angered this peaceful green dome.
Had I shattered the silence of their sacred home.

I looked for the source of the voice as far as I could see.
Maybe someone was hiding behind a huge old maple tree.

I made it my purpose to find the speaker.
As time went by my resolve became weaker.

I was in no hurry, I could wait Them out.
Even in my haunting doubt.

There was no wind, I waited for a sound.
Now more in the direction of the profound.

Where there had been silence not a breeze.
A small twister arose, shaking the trees.
Now I felt the need to appease.