The Woodworker

I was born into nature-- blush-faced cedar

from young hands, strong and sure

I did not yet know uniform,

only chaos, only overgrowth-

fierce foliage and bounties of evergreen.

Under his wing, I learned order.

For years I stood tall, just like he wanted.

My board-straight posture was one of pride.

He visited often, my father.

You learn a lot about someone

by the way they depend on those around them,

and for a long time,

I was the only thing around him.

We’d spend days and nights alone,

he’d work things out of wood

and sip moonshine out of a flask

while I’d watch it drip down the trees.

That was a long time ago.

His once steady hands splintered,

aged into fragile pine needles.

He withered, and crumbled

and with him, the meadows lost their life

and the sky was barren

Spring came years later

when his children,

and his children’s children sprouted up

in the place he once rested his roots

though I was old, and my bones had

sun-bleached over the years.

they’d follow that old trail

trampled by that man

and sit upon my lap, let me tell them stories

with every creak of my frame

of all the things their grandfather built

look at me, I’d say,

father created me long ago

from a tree not far from here

and I’m still standing tall-

-so are you.

Remember when you fall asleep

in the beds he built

with the blankets he wove

to thank him-

make him proud

Stand tall, it’s what he always did

It’s what he would have wanted.