As oft as never did,

Peaked my curiosity,

Out of truck I slid,

         Gleaming eye, sprightly smile,

             “Oh I’ve been bad today” said she,

     Wondering now so wearily

          what had just become of me,

               Before her answer could be made,

            Beyond the snow banks muffle,

                The sound of discontent caught air,

          `Tward that sound I shuffled,

             And in the fading light did see,

        …. Six little lambs…

                         No fence, no house, just a gate and feed’

              And snow banks, SNOWBANKS,

             as tall, as high, as me,

        Separated them from me.

                    On the next morn slogged I to wood,

                        In thigh deep snow with chainsaw stood,

             Surveying trees for usefulness,

                 To build a house, to build a fence,

                   …In the snow, …In the wood,………

      The months have flown,

Winter past,

                   Budding flower and greening blade,

              The little lambs so tersely ask,

    Where are the fields,

                     Where is the glade of springtime past,

            Wherein did we run and play,

                     And find and eat sweet sprig of grass,

                And clover bloom in gentle breeze,

       Of sunshine warmings last,

            Blooming bud and tender shoot,

                 And run and play and find our ease?

               Patience, patience my little lambs,

         I’m off to the fray,

                  From these woods your fields of joy,

         And to that end I toil today,

            But for every worthwhile thing,

                    This patience must you show and then,

               The little lambs will jump and play,

                     And feed and grow throughout the day,

                 Having room to run and eat and rest;

                         And show their lambs which sprigs are best…

          Hurry! Hurry! Said they to me,

       As I slung my saw at first,

    …. Most carefully…

The time flew by,

    The trees came down,

              The little lambs now did frown,

            Another winter by the boards,

              Another spring’s rains did drown,

     …My ambitions…

            Sharpening saw to set to work,

       Setting off in veil of mist,

         The little lambs accosted me,

          “Where are the fields and glade

          Of spring time past, barely now

        A memory, wherein we did run

     And jump and play?

       Where are the sweet sprigs of

    Grass, we tire of old hay,

           And clovers, sweet candied bloom

   The only joys of life exist

      You must work harder, longer

      Faster, but for now we must

On this subsist.

     Quite guiltily set off I, in

        Sweat and toil, brow not dry,

           And by the fence lined up they,

  To urge me on,

      A noise went up among them

   With every tree that fell,

          Closer to their goal, ever louder

       For now their ranks did swell,

              Alpine Goats added we for company,

   Mischievous lot were they,

    Urging them on tenaciously,

   All they did was bay,

               And now as I dropped springtime tree,

           They begged me most unmercifully,

              For new growth twig, sprig and leave

              The Alpines favorite sweets you see,

          I still blame the goats tenacity,

                Springtime rain to springtime  bloom,

              Seed put down on raked out loam,

              My little lambs watch every move,

        I tell them cloven hooves will

               Crush, sweet springs will not awaken,

   The little lambs must jump

        And play, and rest and feed on

More than hay!

           Please we’ll tread most carefully,

          We will not hurt our field today,

       Replied I to they impatiently,

        That would never do, to watch

         The toil of seasons lay to waste

      In summer dew,

  Time has past the grass

     Grew in, I let them out of

    Their locked pen,

Off they flew with

  All their might

    Jumping and playing in

    Joy of flight,

              To wooded lot next to greening

       Field, to tender growth,

   The hardwoods yield,

          Shaking head, heaving sigh,

            The best of plans gone awry,

                 Mischievous goats did lay to waste

         I saw their smiles on their

  Face,

…Forsaking…

       All that work for not

 The shepherd’s life

stillwaters@metrocast.net

74 Chick Rd
Lebanon, ME
207-457-1092