There you stood standing upon that great hill
The trees so barren from the cold winter bite,
Taken with awe by your dexterous skill
Every move representing each stage of my fright.
The buzz of the chainsaw is nothing compared
To the abstract sculptures framing our fears,
Clearing the downfalls where no one has dared
And using each piece to warm our veneers.
And, alas you say, “I’m not afraid”
For each move is a purposeful one,
But for someone who’s never followed this way
The fear is second to none.
Each movement has grace, without it there’s woe
It’s best to be careful, be patient and slow.