Friday, June 28, 2013


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.

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