Timber

                                                          Timber

Weird. Other people are weird
because they are not me.
Weird. You must think other people are weird
because they are not you.
Though we may disagree
that truth is true.

Well chosen lumber slumbers in my lumber room,
my store of timber
never to build a building or a fence,
kept to be better than empty space.
As I grew older, I thought
the world would make more sense.
If I could melt the frozen number
of mistakes would the thickness
of the wall that shields the truth
seem less dense?
All I know is life is large, the universe immense.

A lumberjack shouts timber
when a chain sawed tree
is about to lurch and topple down.
The forest is so silent,
every creak and crack
of its fall is felt
until it thuds the ground.
In the aftermath of the felling,
the stillness is cleaved
by an axe downward bound.
Logs piled high in sheds,
to keep dry for wood for winter.
Unobtrusive, as ever,
I listen, make no sound.

Woodworker, here is the timber
to carve, plane, joint your furniture.
Word weaver, here is the paper
to write on pages lost count of number.
Take them where they cannot go,
your listener, your reader.
Unchain, unlock the forgotten, rusted gate
to the hidden garden.
Reveal the carp in the pond,
communing above pebble and fern.
Let them sense the silence,
and in the stillness,
urge them to follow, respond.

Timber. One day a voice will shout timber,
but it will not be a tree but I
who falls in the forest,
the silence sudden before I crack to the ground.
Timber. One day a voice will shout timber,
but it will not be me but you
who uproots without sound.

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2 thoughts on “Timber”

  1. I really enjoyed this poem, so full if visual imagery, so thought provoking. Perhaps my favorite lines,

    “As I grew older, I thought
    the world would make more sense.
    If I could melt the frozen number
    of mistakes would the thickness
    of the wall that shields the truth
    seem less dense?”

    Fantastic! Thank you!

    Warm wishes,
    Pepper

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