Roots

Kinnikinick. Fir. Granite.
These are my flesh

my bones.

My blood tumbles like
The stream falling over
Sodden logs where fish
Hide in pools.

The warm vanilla of Ponderosas
Twines with the bite
of pine sap
To make my only scent.

I grew up on stories of pioneers

Who bent iron

And trees to their will.

Their backs rose strong and

straight like the stone towers

That made their homes.

All that's left is the faint

taste of adventure

In recipes made a

hundred times on

the same wood stove 

that still

warms the kitchen.