Cabin Built Man: a short poem
American Poetry
Lumberjack grip
and the grit of his eighties,
Grandpa Jack's rockin',
cracked and grizzly.
He's cut and torn,
split by the ax,
of the logs of his youth,
that have broken his back.
So, there he relaxes
on oak carved from his palms,
with a worn finish
hugging the bare of his arms.
He leans back
as the cedar boards bend
and sends a gaze
in to the ends of the pines.
His mind rewinds
to the tricks of his youth,
as the Zig Zag trickles by
and reminds him of you...
Grandma in heaven,
prepare a place
for your cabin built man.
'Cause grandpa felt purpose
in holding your hand.
But now he just sits,
and awaits death on his land
counting down breaths,
till he's recessed in the sand.
And as time ticks by
behind his logs on Mount Hood.
Grandpa Jack rocks,
by his creek in the woods.
