It must have been hard to wake from a dream
Where he could do anything, even more
Than anyone alive, to realize then
That he could not move half his body still,
To wait to be transferred by his small wife
From bed to porcelain *** to lift chair-
Unimaginable loss of freedom
In a house he built from lumber he sawed
From timber he cut from a woods he owned.

I grew up there, by that same woods, deep and
Dark in the early morning light, snaking
Logs between still standing  oaks, looking up
For widowmakers, dead limbs that slaughter
Loggers, and over my shoulder for snags
That rear tractors or snap chains that become
Metal whips--so many dangers in that
Woods, yet I  felt safe, as his son, because
He had the confidence I wish I knew.