Wood-the forts we made, with dad’s help among pines and poplars, the smoke arising from a campfire in autumn, holding a sleepy child in front of a fireplace, a tree in the forest, charred, but still alive.
A fallen tree makes me wonder how large the tree was when I was born, if my grandpa climbed it, maybe planted it. When I see wood, I realize that it may have been here before me and may be here long after me. In all of its’ fragility, wood seems to speak of endurance. The lines within a log upon the ground, they speak of drought, or rainy years, they carry the voice of the creatures who lived when each log was a tree.
I see “my” crows standing in a snag above my house, waiting for me to put out scraps and then calling to their comrades. I see my grandpa hauling in logs for grandma’s woodstove. I stack railway ties to make a wall for my garden. I inhale the fragrance of new wood in a young house, waiting patiently for memories yet to come.
Wood is a diary, an album of our being. I touch it gently, reminded of all the meanings it holds.
Sandra Bennett said,
December 28, 2012 @ 2:05 am
I enjoyed this, beebee…Both wood and rocks have always captured my imagination, and you have helped to rekindle some of my thoughts as well…Thanks.
Lucid Gypsy said,
December 28, 2012 @ 7:02 am
Yes very soulful Beebee and it took me for a lovely nostalgic ramble. Beautifully written!
lenwilliamscarver said,
December 28, 2012 @ 11:34 am
As the daughter and granddaughter of Master Carpenters I too appreciate wood, very beautifully written BB ((xx))
angelarenetaylor said,
December 28, 2012 @ 3:59 pm
You captured beautifully the nature of wood from both its physical core to its ability to store history. A walk down memory lane for many.
angelarenetaylor said,
December 28, 2012 @ 4:00 pm
And, Happy Birthday!
Subhan Zein said,
December 29, 2012 @ 6:04 am
The last two sentences are wonderful. Keep crafting brilliance! And Merry Christmas to you, and happy birthday too!
Subhan Zein
Evolution of X said,
January 6, 2013 @ 2:52 am
Lovely! When the floors creaked in our old house, I used to imagine the wood could remember being trees on a mountainside swaying in the wind.