Handmade Paper and Poetry

Log

a fallen red oak tree is rotting on the ground, fat
and wet with insects and small critters
needling through.

the log is my grandfather, the one
with a pipe and weathered skin, preserved
like a permanent mark, his shoulders like shelter
and now only an image supporting my conscience, his age
is this tree, without rings to count but spikes softened by rain,
the blueprint of lightening leaving the red oak’s
secrets protected, for the time being.

a fallen red oak is a riddle told by a man losing his teeth.

Since manufactured paper has been widely popular, used
without a thought, it is impossible to mourn a red oak tree
living to fall, to be over for its simple fibers and easy
access—a classic conditioning of
beauty for human operations.

a red fallen oak is the perfect place to rest for a ham sandwich
and a bottle of wine with your lover—
you won’t recognize its meaning until an
ant crawls over your ankle and there is
a pause in the conversation.

a red oak falls when you are in your house and the earth
is shaking to the temper of the sky and you are not worried
about the forest but about your home and the electricity and
your mortal dog howling in the kitchen with his strong sense
of how difficult it is to stand up right in the world.