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Slow Burn
by Kristina WoodhillJohn, the old Dutchman,
Lights his small fire each day
And I know when he's out and about
By the slow
Curl of gray white smoke
Drifting and dancing
Just above Danny's six foot cedar fence
Just this side of John's gently rolling three acres
His fences are long and wide
Mortared rough, porous
Idaho black lava rock
Dug in situ
Hauled and piled and set
Water courses through narrow concrete runnels,
Crude, yet neat and utilitarian
Fencing fashioned by one hand,
Runnels poured long before
Sid, the concrete edging guy,
Swept through local landscapes,
Formerly known as
Idaho's old homesteads
John and his missus
Started the Farmer's Market here in 1989;
Small trees and various plants in various odd pots
Populate the back of his land,
Loaded into his old pick-up truck
Saturday mornings,
Spring to late summer
Watching him drive off toward town
Was like viewing a small parade float,
Players all cramped together
Waving like mad in the breeze
Every tree from every seed
Or start John found or was given,
Grows on their land;
I envy a forest that old age begets;
He works it with abandon
Limbs and trees come and go,
The latest a huge old poplar,
Downed for a young John's sin,
Planted less than five feet
From a concrete waterway
When push comes to shove
Water must have its way
So the stump has stumped him
And it is a mighty stump,
Alive a few short weeks prior,
It would sucker like
A candy factory in spring
If given half a glance of water
And a shred of sweet western sunshine
His younger, old helper
Initially applied the wedge
To one side of the stump's edge
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump
While we passers-by
Quietly shook heads,
Admiring far fetched optimism,
While counting 50 ways implausible
To remove this lover
So here's where he's at,
John, the old Dutchman,
And by all witnessed accounts,
This is where he'll stay
Hunched studiously
Over the old, live stump,
Feeding its barely wedged-open mouth
Small dead limbs
Lit anew each day
A slow smolder,
An old tree crackles feebly,
Trying to talk its way out
Of its sinking feeling
John's missus tells me
His mind wanders in the past now;
Pick-up keys are hidden
Personally,
I think he's mind first
Into that stump,
Has figured out finally
His own way back
Each year's burnt tree ring
Exhaling precious gems of memories,
Inhaled deeply by the old Dutchman
From an old, old trunk of treasures
02/25/2015 Posted on 02/25/2015
Copyright © 2025 Kristina Woodhill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 02/26/15 at 01:34 PM Fascinating story telling Kristina, you might say tall as a tree?! Or short as a stump. :) |
| Posted by Laura Doom on 02/28/15 at 12:31 PM Perhaps he is flying--destined to inhale for eternity... |
| Posted by Steve Michaels on 03/17/15 at 05:24 AM such vivid imagery and thoughtful ending. You brought me there to your memories and I enjoyed the visit! |
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