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Sawmill and Ashes
by Kristina Woodhill
Those of us who walked to the old sawmill
Trod where your feet trod for years, Poppie,
Firming down once again your commitment
To this quiet, undulating ocean of land;
We walked as one, on dry ground,
Respite from Oregon's winter deluge
To come, this warm October afternoon
Inviting us up the half-mile dirt road,
Blackberry overgrowth beaten back
By the new patriarch of our family,
By the newly resurrected D8 Cat
Insinuating its low growls, neck strong,
Mouth of steel unperturbed by
Thorns thrusting, limbs punctuated,
Twining in some wild wrestling match
Fencing more than one side-hill ring;
We walked as one, this sacred day,
Traipsing with a purpose
Behind the '58 Chevy pickup,
Its bed filled with the newly awoken,
The fresh curls and tender hands
Holding hands of brave aunts and uncles,
Brothers five, wives four, the whelps
Squealing to the hills, laughter skipping
All through the wooded landscape,
Each bounce up from the truck bed
An adventure over roots on the move,
Lifting the pitch of us all,
Musical synthesis feeding our limbs
Oh! the incense cedars swaying,
See! the sturdy oaks holding leaves
A little longer, absorbing
Each note more deeply,
This living sound spilling, filling,
Stored in each dropping acorn,
Capped tightly, treasured;
We walk as one, we who adore this land,
We come to stand and stand down together
Around the old sawmill, Poppie,
Your handiwork, your requested resting place;
Two crude boxes are prised open
Two elder sons steer your course;
Poppie, you are leading Mommie
As you both settle in peacefully, the mill encircled;
Your children and theirs and theirs scurry about,
Katie, the dog, sniffs the gray white trails,
Daughters-in-law stand shoulder to shoulder
Sharing hankies, nodding over 40 years
Look how much whiter Mommie,
Couldn't have had a nicer autumn send-off,
Didn't the old man who sang
This Old House have the perfect
Crackling voice, Craig's brilliant photo of you
In your floppy old hat, the chili was a lip-smacking
Perfect choice, the laminated rifle stock you made
Was a beauty, admired on the long table,
Your tool box, your glasses with black frames and
Heavy cord grinning from ear piece to ear piece,
Your walking stick leaning beside the tool box, Poppie,
Resting
11/29/2010
Posted on 11/29/2010
Copyright © 2024 Kristina Woodhill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Ken Harnisch on 11/29/10 at 07:20 PM wow, the imagery. Frost transposed to the Or4egon coast in full grandeur and glory and a love of language that is breathtaking to read and more so to imagine. A master work, Kristina! |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 11/29/10 at 08:19 PM You have quite a family there lady. And you write so lovingly of it. Really great write. |
| Posted by David Hill on 11/29/10 at 11:41 PM This is full of fine details that bring it to life. I get a feeling of the place, the family, and the man. |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 11/30/10 at 10:54 PM I wish I could move between poetic force and the kind of narrative you usually see in a beautifully imagined, intensely visual short story. This piece illustrates so well your ability to do just that. |
| Posted by Laura Doom on 12/05/10 at 12:18 PM Like Ken, I thought of Frost, and a parallel divergence [if I can say that without contradicting myself]. Total engagement with animation as it relates to ashes. You do remarkable things with 'central' themes :> |
| Posted by E. A. Pugh on 01/25/11 at 08:09 PM Great, I love how you saved the full explination for last. beautiful painting of words. |
| Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 01/29/11 at 01:13 AM Beautiful and emotional eloquence as usual. Reminded of our visit to Oregon many years ago. But your poem full of memories of family as well. |
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