for Rick (1956–2022)
The pine log screams
as he pushes it through
the saw. A portable mill
because he likes to work
outdoors, leaning in to
northern summer sun, or
weighed down with wool
and leather against fracturing
winter wind.
Local carpenters reject
the crooked unplaned lumber
that comes from anyone else.
A genial sculptor
in wood, he sees more
than anyone can: a 12 x 12
x 20-foot beam pulled
from a scaly pine log;
siding for henhouse repair;
a wide new barn scented
with the bubble gum smell
of white pine pitch.
His smile opens the door
to confabs on the porch,
gifts of ripe tomatoes
and bark ends that hold
our garden together.
He keeps our snowy driveway
clear. Everything he makes
or does are offerings
for someone else.
He’s rough-cut as his wood,
and every bit as straight.