There was once a little girl,
Every day,
She would work alongside her father,
The village's local woodcutter.
Her fingers we're splintered,
With small drops of blood,
Falling onto the wood.
But she still wore a smile,
A smile brighter than the sun,
Beating down on her skin.
One day I gained the courage,
To walk up to her,
And ask a question,
That plagued the minds,
Of all the village children.
I asked her,
"Do you like cutting wood?"
She shook her head,
A smile still pinned on her
Sun-burnt face.
"Then why do you do it?"
I asked again,
Eyes squinting in curiosity.
"Wood is friendlier than people."
Was all she said,
And got back to work.
I never understood her answer,
But now I do.
With wood,
You know what to expect,
You are aware of it's splinters,
Aware of the blood,
But people?
The kindest turns into the most
Vicious.
You are always caught of guard,
One day causing a smile,
The next day the very reason for
Tears.
I understand now,
The woodcutter's daughter,
She taught me a heartbreaking truth,
Wood is friendlier than people.
YOU ARE READING
Poetic Justice
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