Poetry / Notebooks, Toothpicks and the Houses that Shelter Them.

A cruel game of pick-up sticks
cover mountainsides.
The aftermath of a logging culture patchworks,
hillsides and mountains.
Creates bald spots no one even tries
to hide.

Spires and snags-
green and brown in high-noon sunlight
can do nothing against the power of men
with chainsaws,
a logging truck
or a helicopter.

As if thrown by a greedy child’s hand,
bodies lie askew atop defiled ground.
Thumps of vegetal flesh echo
when stacked on trucks.

I drive highways and back woods country roads.
I drive through downtown thoroughfares and
floating before me- as if on wings- are
wisps and clumps of bark and boughs.
In the way of everyone’s rushing need to be there now.

Douglas Fir, Cedar and Hemlock.
Oaks and innumerable species of pine.
Our giants of myth
reduced, to thin bark on concrete.
The timber of new homes.

They take their only ride, stacked on their backs
blasted by exhaust gusts.
On their way to become children’s' toys
notebooks, toothpicks
and the houses that shelter them.

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