Eulogy, Old Pine
This plank in my hand feels warm.
My fingers, cold.
I am alone in my wood shop
with pieces of a working class tree
who was sticky and rough,
who could be prickly when pushed,
who drank only rain,
who manufactured cones at prodigious rate,
who sheltered the nesting owl,
who for fancy sported yellow fungus and emerald moss,
who stood strong against bullying storm,
who donates his body,
who lingers as dust smelling sweet as sugar.
Could one say
half as good
Joe Cottonwood has built or repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit. His latest book is Foggy Dog: Poems of the Pacific Coast. He’s a pretty good carpenter and a crackerjack grandfather in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California.