Far down a dirt driveway where nobody goes,
with chainsaw I mill logs into lumber
for a country cabin. My cabin. My land.
Hot, the sun. Hard, the work.
Here’s flesh slathered in sweat and sawdust.
Here after a long day are three structural beams.
Next day the dog flushes a wild boar, to their mutual surprise.
It’s a thrash through underbrush chasing,
grunting, barking until finally a standoff.
I call the dog away; the boar retreats, dignity ruffled.
Immediately after, I break open a log and here’s
a lovely blue-tailed skink like a jeweled bracelet, alive.
Second day, six boards. Mounds of red sawdust.
Cawing crows come and go to a cabin of twigs
in a tall redwood, feeding hungry crowlets.
Over the creek four spiders dangle
on interlocking threads of mist, a web
of homesteads linked, boundaries guarded.
Dawdling, dawn, I linger by the campfire,
a second cup of coffee.
A prickle — a tick on my nipple.
Plucked, the head stays in. An omen
of the day to come. A log shifts, banging,
bruising, almost fracturing my leg.
The chain binds;
then the starter cord breaks.
Fuck it.
Pack the chainsaw in the pickup.
From a lumberyard, I can buy better wood for less labor,
cut from a forest not mine.
Hiking to the meadow, wild oats come up to my chest.
I nearly walk into a deer. As with the boar,
mutual surprise. But I don’t chase. Or bark.
Crows, spiders, even (I concede) ticks,
here’s your sanctuary. Protect this land,
live as part of it. So will I.
In my cabin.
YOU ARE READING
Construction Zone
PuisiThere's dirt under my fingernails, sawdust in my hair. I'm proud to say I hammer nails. Install toilets. Hang drywall. Welcome to the construction zone. Note: I've had to "unpublish" a few poems from this collection because they are going to appear...
