Treework

Somewhat a drafted musing about work. Will potentially go through a lot of revision, potentially not, we'll see.

Stiffened lamp-shaped men, and women
Toiling away in rows and rows of wood-
Trading minutes and hours from their ends
To nurse and teach trees how to fit to our-good
Break times releases these bent-hobbly walkers
Into town, as knowing glances and perennial speak of the season marks wherein the cycle they have found
-themselves; limbing, suckering and grafting;
And where the season has them grafting their sights
Set onto near-by valleys and far-off mountains
That speak in shadowy psalms of purpose to the hearts
Or, maybe not purpose, but they speak in Atleasts;
At least the whisps of falling and rising clouds
Can be seen by me, at least the artists' pallette on leaves dancing in the breeze can be felt, and lived by me.
Then, back to hunch like a tribute to sun onwards to meet
The rows' end, and start anew all over again.