#pacificnorthwest
My young, eager eyes lapped up the forest as fervently as they could.
Novelty was what they hungered for, as my axe did for ****** wood.
It was fresh. New.
The Pacific Northwest wasn't ready for us.
Wife and I moved out here a couple months ago with the promise we'd make a good, honest living out here.
Y’know, these trees are so beautiful… real shame we’ve gotta cut ‘em all down for a whole lot less than what we was promised.
Progress… for what?
I don't think I wanna do this anymore…
but I must.
Onto the next tree. Hope this one's easier to cut down.
Feb 5, 2025
Feb 5, 2025 at 7:51 PM UTC
There are too many words in English
(for me, at least)
for what a fire does.
None of them tell me
what a fire is -
for that, i suppose
all you need
are images
and memories
and eyes.
And there is no point
(for anybody at all)
trying to describe what a fire looks like.
No point in charcoal imagery
and allusions to hell
and poems with holes in them.
Because that’s all a fire leaves behind.
Charcoal
and what feels like hell.
This poem would have holes anyway.
But there is always a reason
to fill these holes
with words.
Why is it
there are always words
when there are holes?
Oh,
why are there words?
Yes, words are human
but god,
so are the holes,
those between the spidery embers
that we dare to call trees.
(which are human too.)
And since I’m also made
of holes
and words
and dying embers
I (instead) focus on those holes between trees
and think that
wood is not really food for fire
and realize that
this wasn’t supposed to be about me
and pretend that
I am not at a loss,
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC