Chain saw heavier, I cut arms
off skeletons littering pastures
and canyons after years of drought,
a battleground where old oaks lost
touch with water—most barkless now
tipped-over or in tangled piles
beneath authoritative trunks
begging purpose, begging cremation
or stacked close to the woodstove.
Old habits and rituals finally slow
as the limbs grow heavier despite
the pleading of the heartwood.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged age, cordwood, Drought, habits, oak trees, photography, poetry, rituals, skeletons, woodstove
Beneath clouds
the forecast rain peters out
to a light mist, heavy dew, a sip
to hold greening hills a week—
like always, I’m disappointed
wanting more
security for cows.
Today, we’ll cut skeletons
of brittle manzanita
into woodstove lengths
to bring Blue Oak coals
to flame each morning.
We’ll take the dog,
put out salt,
check cows and calves—
stack the brush
load the Kubota
and let her sit between us
all the way home.
Through the years
we have worn cow trails of our own.
Like always, we’ll see something
we’ve never seen before.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2021, Ranch Journal
Tagged cow trails, cycles, dog, habits, Manzanita, rain, woodstove
…he fed the young flame with wisps of dry grass
and with the tiniest dry twigs.
– Jack London (“To Build a Fire”)
A fair piece from the Yukon,
Jack—nothing warms cold bones
like a good fire. We, too, need
a flame to feed a woodstove
oak, the standing dead and fallen
to adversity and time,
and start with broken posts:
split coastal redwood pencil-thin
into a chimney teepee thatch
on crumpled newsprint
before the match leaps to catch
a hungry blaze, inside
shadows dance and touch,
begging brittle Manzanita’s
hard red heart that dulls a chain,
severed limbs of lichened skeletons
wait to burn hot and easily
to prepare the seed, lick the oak
with fire. And glowing early
morning coals banked in ash
start Manzanita sticks a flash.
(click)
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