Vincent van Gogh, "Wood Gatherers in the Snow," 1884
Seldom is he satisfied with our work
Although we gather all the wood we can
He surveys our wretched toil with a smirk
We always fall short of his careful plan
He reminds us that winter is cruel
And insists that fire is ravenous
He seems to think each of us is a fool
Dismissing our complaints as fatuous
I watch my sister sweat, my mother cough
My limbs ache, and my back threatens to snap;
At our striving, he is likely to scoff
In his mind, we are all beneath his cap
The dry bones of a forest, we carry
As they burn, will his heart become merry?
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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Comments (5)
Wow can feel the pain of this situation through your words. Excellent storytelling and love the picture to go with it.
Such an oppressive atmosphere. Love this! 💌
Not me thinking fatuous means humongously fat 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 Loved your poem!
Wow. Amazing work bringing that pic to life. And damn if it's not still relevant today. That said, that same painting you could use for a classic tales of hearth fiction.
You managed to convey quite a family dynamic in this! Loved “The dry bones of a forest, we carry”. Wonderful work, D.J.!