Sawmill.

Heat.
Waves off the roof.
Ripples above warped metal.
Out behind the sawmill.
Chewed pine aroma tangled with
The over sweet scent of wild strawberries,
Crushed underfoot.
The blade whines,
The great, green trees sway
In sympathy as
A brief breeze,
Carries a pitchy tang.

Inside, my father pulls the levers,
Rusty fingers poking through worn gloves,
He sings over the ancient, sputtering motor.
Smoking and belching, it will never quit.
Forever sparking to brutal life
When he turns the oily key.

And back here, I hold a patched shovel,
Because I come from a people,
That patch shovels,
Pulling the ever growing dust mound
Back away from the pipe that spews it.
The remains of log and steel encounter.
My job for the morning.
No hurry.
A wet circle rings the pile,
As finally, in June, the inner ice thaws,
The deep glassy heart, melting at last.
Never a hurry.

It is enough, right now,
To simply exist.
To look at my shovel and it's
Riveted tin patch,
The moisture seeping
From the crumbling, yellow hill at my feet,
The berry stains edging my boot soles.
To think of the trees,
And my father, and his gloves,
And his voice,
Raised in a pure baritone
Over everything else.
To be someplace
Because you were put there.
Because you belong.

Yes, back here,
Amidst, sound and smell,
Sun, and coarse, golden chaff,
An itching cling on my damp skin,
I am alone, and never alone.
Questions, questions, questions dissolve,
Surrounded by what and where and when.
Happy.
I know who I am.
Oddly satisfied.
A strange peace, raw and loud,
Keeps me.
Fills me with home.
Home.