The moon, as if a silver pearl, fading into a
father, oldest son, of lumberjack tradition,
work broadened hands, ginger hair and beards,
waking quickly to coffee, pancakes, sausage,
then, into labor battered large pickup trucks,
on a dirt road to the timberland, one hesitates,
younger sister, thanks their wife and mother
for the chow,
then runs for her waiting older brother's truck,
nineteen, long strawberry blonde braids,
a spitting image of her mother's youthful
petite, fair, and strong,
in a lavender plaid work shirt,
jeans and workboots,
a proud Northwest American lumberjill.
No reviews yet.