This Lenten season I’ve been trying to put my words on paper more often, and have been revisiting some old pieces of poetry to rework them and get my mind working again. This is for my parents.
My father burned 4 trees this season, the winter
unrelenting in its fury. The wood stove seizing any life
left from the logs, forcing heat out of bark and sap,
moisture cracking out of the crevices, echoing
inside the cast iron berth that hulks under
the mantle’s gaze.
You can smell the woodsmoke before you can see
the house. The trees funnel everything- the smoke,
the racket of spring peepers, the light at the end of day.
Sun and moon rise over the same mountain, cyclic,
like life in this hollow. Summers spent tending the earth,
winters spent burning pieces of it- the land keeping us.