Self Portrait 23 Feb 2008

We were waiting for the sharpened tramp
To rumble from the lumber camps
His purpose in his arm like a two sided axe.

Here, where there is timber, we have been expecting him
to come sing songing across a meadow or at night
like a specter to tap on our misted windows.

We even spotted a plume of white smoke
Twisting on the mountain side and rejoiced
There he must be, one last campfire on the long journey
From the east.

Jinney marked the trees, cleared the debris from the
Woodshed, said she’d made the perfect hat for him
White enough to keep him seen and tight enough not to
Spin with a swing or an impact.

We’d waited for the TIMBER shout, the winter’s warmth,
An icon man. When we’d waited far too long
The old men, creaky shouldered, did the job.

He hasn’t come.

Aaron Allen