November 2016
Tricia Knoll
triciaknoll@gmail.com
triciaknoll@gmail.com
The light has turned. I can't kid myself. I'm going to spend the fall using the Stafford method of daily writing — spare journaling, then constructing an aphorism that sounds potentially wise, next launching into a poem. My poetry collections include Ocean's Laughter (Aldrich Press, 2016) and a chapbook Urban Wild (Finishing Line Press, 2014). Website: triciaknoll.com
Cedars and Me
My cedar rocking chair
gossips with the deck. A gust twirls
the spiral mobile in slow time.
Port Orford cedar, the deck, last majesty
of the southern Oregon coast. Bragging
of fineness, legacy. How it handles fire. Scars.
How its ginger scent repels insects,
this wood of stout boats
that sailed the Liptons for tea,
carried lumber to Asia
for caskets and temples.
Red cedar rocker chair, commoner,
soothing wood of baby cradle,
dugout canoe, basket weavings,
plank and stump houses.
Clothes chests and utility poles.
By the backyard creek, four rugged trunks
spread into wet soil, heartwood.
I cannot hug them big enough.
A cedar planted seven years ago
now taller than I am.
Fall rain darkens the wood.
My cedar rocking chair
gossips with the deck. A gust twirls
the spiral mobile in slow time.
Port Orford cedar, the deck, last majesty
of the southern Oregon coast. Bragging
of fineness, legacy. How it handles fire. Scars.
How its ginger scent repels insects,
this wood of stout boats
that sailed the Liptons for tea,
carried lumber to Asia
for caskets and temples.
Red cedar rocker chair, commoner,
soothing wood of baby cradle,
dugout canoe, basket weavings,
plank and stump houses.
Clothes chests and utility poles.
By the backyard creek, four rugged trunks
spread into wet soil, heartwood.
I cannot hug them big enough.
A cedar planted seven years ago
now taller than I am.
Fall rain darkens the wood.
©2016 Tricia Knoll
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