THE PRUNER
Listen!That bump against the steps—he’s back.The dog comes floundering on his track,His shaggy clumps are lumped with ice, he shakesVociferously his drippy coat and makesStraight for the kitchen—he’s a dog, the kindWho takes no longer than he should to findWhat’s in his pan—or isn’t. It’s cold mushThis time. The man has just kicked off the slushAnd shuffled up the steps. They’re awkward things—Those bear-paws, when the rawhide’s caked; he flingsHis soggy mittens off and takes his hatAnd swishes it across the frozen mat.He clatters on the porch—then stoops to looseThe knots that hold his boots fast in the noose,Kicks free his weary feet and stands his hookAgainst the logs. He has an all-in lookTonight—that crook that’s got his shoulder-bladeIs pruner’s luck—a man’s arm isn’t madeTo reach and twist all day without some bitOf ache to take home with him when he’s quit.That wind-tan and the stubble-growth of beardThat’s cropped out on his chin and gotten smearedAround his throat, they do a useful turn—They temper cold and dull the bright snow-burn.It snowed this morning when he went awayWith those big bear-paws on—it snowed all day;And though his sleeves and neck are soaked a lotWith all the constant reaching up, it’s notSo bad—the snow—for when it’s four feet deepOr so, a pruner doesn’t have to keepThat raking stretch. Another day and night,If it keeps up like this, will fix it right.All yesterday it rained—he didn’t stop,Just went ahead and pruned—and let it drop.The day before was sun—a blinding glareOn snow—it’s amber goggles then and they’reForever getting fogged. Of course a dayGets sort of tucked in now and then that mayNot be so bad, although they’re pretty few,But good or bad there’s little else to doIn winter-time, but prune. And it is plain,A man who loves his trees won’t stop for rainOr cold or driving snow or dazzling sunUntil the job he started on is done.To any man like that a tree is boundTo mean more than a root shoved in the ground,For they are his, his own, his pets—just likeHis kids. They’re part of him and so they strikeInto his heart. He’s cuddled them, he’s stuckWith them through all the ups and downs of luck;Instead of chicken-pox he’s had to fightAnthracnos, winter-kill and scab and blight;He knows his rows—what every tree’s been through,The one’s who’ve done him proud and strugglers too.And he remembers how, four years ago—That day the big freeze came with all the snow,He found the weighted limbs of some of themAll split and broken from the mother stem.That’s why there’s something human enters inTo pruning trees—it almost seems a sinSometimes to lop off here and lop off thereThe wood you’ve coaxed with such a heap of care;Like punishment it seems, and though it’s wise,Those fruit-spurred boughs are hard to sacrifice.And when he takes a tree and prunes the woodThe way it should be done for that tree’s good,He does not see the severed sticks that showBlack-twisted there upon the trampled snow—To him, each one’s a green-leafed bough that’s gone,With all its scented crimson apples on.His blouse is steaming now—hung on a chairBefore the kitchen-stove—she put it there.She’s humming cheerful-like, tonight it’s toastAnd coffee and potatoes and pot-roast;He will forget his shoulder after while,And when he’s filled and dry—he’ll smile.
Listen!That bump against the steps—he’s back.The dog comes floundering on his track,His shaggy clumps are lumped with ice, he shakesVociferously his drippy coat and makesStraight for the kitchen—he’s a dog, the kindWho takes no longer than he should to findWhat’s in his pan—or isn’t. It’s cold mushThis time. The man has just kicked off the slushAnd shuffled up the steps. They’re awkward things—Those bear-paws, when the rawhide’s caked; he flingsHis soggy mittens off and takes his hatAnd swishes it across the frozen mat.He clatters on the porch—then stoops to looseThe knots that hold his boots fast in the noose,Kicks free his weary feet and stands his hookAgainst the logs. He has an all-in lookTonight—that crook that’s got his shoulder-bladeIs pruner’s luck—a man’s arm isn’t madeTo reach and twist all day without some bitOf ache to take home with him when he’s quit.That wind-tan and the stubble-growth of beardThat’s cropped out on his chin and gotten smearedAround his throat, they do a useful turn—They temper cold and dull the bright snow-burn.It snowed this morning when he went awayWith those big bear-paws on—it snowed all day;And though his sleeves and neck are soaked a lotWith all the constant reaching up, it’s notSo bad—the snow—for when it’s four feet deepOr so, a pruner doesn’t have to keepThat raking stretch. Another day and night,If it keeps up like this, will fix it right.All yesterday it rained—he didn’t stop,Just went ahead and pruned—and let it drop.The day before was sun—a blinding glareOn snow—it’s amber goggles then and they’reForever getting fogged. Of course a dayGets sort of tucked in now and then that mayNot be so bad, although they’re pretty few,But good or bad there’s little else to doIn winter-time, but prune. And it is plain,A man who loves his trees won’t stop for rainOr cold or driving snow or dazzling sunUntil the job he started on is done.To any man like that a tree is boundTo mean more than a root shoved in the ground,For they are his, his own, his pets—just likeHis kids. They’re part of him and so they strikeInto his heart. He’s cuddled them, he’s stuckWith them through all the ups and downs of luck;Instead of chicken-pox he’s had to fightAnthracnos, winter-kill and scab and blight;He knows his rows—what every tree’s been through,The one’s who’ve done him proud and strugglers too.And he remembers how, four years ago—That day the big freeze came with all the snow,He found the weighted limbs of some of themAll split and broken from the mother stem.That’s why there’s something human enters inTo pruning trees—it almost seems a sinSometimes to lop off here and lop off thereThe wood you’ve coaxed with such a heap of care;Like punishment it seems, and though it’s wise,Those fruit-spurred boughs are hard to sacrifice.And when he takes a tree and prunes the woodThe way it should be done for that tree’s good,He does not see the severed sticks that showBlack-twisted there upon the trampled snow—To him, each one’s a green-leafed bough that’s gone,With all its scented crimson apples on.His blouse is steaming now—hung on a chairBefore the kitchen-stove—she put it there.She’s humming cheerful-like, tonight it’s toastAnd coffee and potatoes and pot-roast;He will forget his shoulder after while,And when he’s filled and dry—he’ll smile.
Listen!That bump against the steps—he’s back.The dog comes floundering on his track,His shaggy clumps are lumped with ice, he shakesVociferously his drippy coat and makesStraight for the kitchen—he’s a dog, the kindWho takes no longer than he should to findWhat’s in his pan—or isn’t. It’s cold mushThis time. The man has just kicked off the slushAnd shuffled up the steps. They’re awkward things—Those bear-paws, when the rawhide’s caked; he flingsHis soggy mittens off and takes his hatAnd swishes it across the frozen mat.
He clatters on the porch—then stoops to looseThe knots that hold his boots fast in the noose,Kicks free his weary feet and stands his hookAgainst the logs. He has an all-in lookTonight—that crook that’s got his shoulder-bladeIs pruner’s luck—a man’s arm isn’t madeTo reach and twist all day without some bitOf ache to take home with him when he’s quit.That wind-tan and the stubble-growth of beardThat’s cropped out on his chin and gotten smearedAround his throat, they do a useful turn—They temper cold and dull the bright snow-burn.
It snowed this morning when he went awayWith those big bear-paws on—it snowed all day;And though his sleeves and neck are soaked a lotWith all the constant reaching up, it’s notSo bad—the snow—for when it’s four feet deepOr so, a pruner doesn’t have to keepThat raking stretch. Another day and night,If it keeps up like this, will fix it right.All yesterday it rained—he didn’t stop,Just went ahead and pruned—and let it drop.The day before was sun—a blinding glareOn snow—it’s amber goggles then and they’reForever getting fogged. Of course a dayGets sort of tucked in now and then that mayNot be so bad, although they’re pretty few,But good or bad there’s little else to doIn winter-time, but prune. And it is plain,A man who loves his trees won’t stop for rainOr cold or driving snow or dazzling sunUntil the job he started on is done.
To any man like that a tree is boundTo mean more than a root shoved in the ground,For they are his, his own, his pets—just likeHis kids. They’re part of him and so they strikeInto his heart. He’s cuddled them, he’s stuckWith them through all the ups and downs of luck;Instead of chicken-pox he’s had to fightAnthracnos, winter-kill and scab and blight;He knows his rows—what every tree’s been through,The one’s who’ve done him proud and strugglers too.And he remembers how, four years ago—That day the big freeze came with all the snow,He found the weighted limbs of some of themAll split and broken from the mother stem.
That’s why there’s something human enters inTo pruning trees—it almost seems a sinSometimes to lop off here and lop off thereThe wood you’ve coaxed with such a heap of care;Like punishment it seems, and though it’s wise,Those fruit-spurred boughs are hard to sacrifice.And when he takes a tree and prunes the woodThe way it should be done for that tree’s good,He does not see the severed sticks that showBlack-twisted there upon the trampled snow—To him, each one’s a green-leafed bough that’s gone,With all its scented crimson apples on.
His blouse is steaming now—hung on a chairBefore the kitchen-stove—she put it there.She’s humming cheerful-like, tonight it’s toastAnd coffee and potatoes and pot-roast;He will forget his shoulder after while,And when he’s filled and dry—he’ll smile.