Tuesday, October 11, 2011

The Wood Pile

This is not the photo

I just cooked up one...see how that stands alone?

The source of this poem is an actual wood pile belonging to a friend and the photo I saw of it. The source of this poem is how northern winter is different from the temperate climate I live in.

When I moved north from the Bay Area of California to the Portland area of the Willamette Valley in Oregon, I was blessed (how I see it anyway) with much longer summer's days and often at least one good winter storm a year. I was blessed (for me it is blessing) with a great deal more rain throughout the year too. I swore to myself I would find more green. In San Jose you look up at the east hills or else it is all flat and city. Those hills are a beautiful spring green, but the rest of the year they are sere and brown, hay colored, dead lawn colored. That was depressing for me. Only August and September can be like that where I live now, and it is easy for people to water through that if they want. When the land is covered in native flora, those plants stay green too.

The Wood Pile

I just cooked up one
good cup of hot chocolate
and I think of you.
I sip, remember
how I watched as you got wood
from the badly stacked
pile, overloaded
under the blue tarp, coated
with winter's sharp rime
and feel that cold now
all these years I've spent after
you found your way out.

December 29, 2009 5:11 PM


  1. It's fascinating how a wood pile can evoke such memories and images, Christopher. I enjoy this poem very much, Christopher.

  2. Hey! Christopher, have you been spying on my wood pile? Yes, the tarp is pretty ratty, isn't it? Now can I have some hot chocolate, too?

  3. Rachel, I don't remember if it was your woodpile, Jozien's woodpile or yet another woodpile altogether. However if you showed up at my door I do in fact have Swiss Miss on hand and a few leftover specialty packages from Land O Lakes too. Come on down.

    But you have to promise to ignore the housekeeping lacks of a fat old batchelor. It hurts to get down there anymore. Things that fall to the floor tend to stay there. I get out of breath now just thinking about work. :(


The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.

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