The Men of My Home

And Dad...
When I'm with you
All I need is
The scent of fish in the stream
The warm sun
on my bent neck
High in the land
as we go
meandering down
dusty logging trails
The familiar scent of evergreens
campfires, and musty ground
goes with us
Reels and creole in hand
I follow him
Stride for stride
Filling his giant bootprints
with my own
And though...
We don't say much
it is understood
when we walk the trails
of our fathers
we regard them
stirring the dust
of their tireless efforts
smelling the warmth
of their sunsweet forest
Where we go, it is there
where we go
they are there!

Strong, Rustic, Distant
Lumberjacks and Millworkers
Gentle Broad Shouldered
Truck Drivers
Steering their load
up a snow slick logging trail
It is the scent of fresh cut cedar
for the coming winter
The smell of my Grandfather's shed. 
And Dad...
When you walked those trails you were a giant
I learned to walk as you did
I followed your boots
to the rush of the river below,
cold and shadowed,
the dawning sun not yet reaching
so far as our quiet hole. 
I could ask anything
and trust
your answers so patient
As you trusted your father
His solemn humility
His quiet smile, gently healing
behind a ballcap and horn-rimmed glasses
He was a hero

I imagine our rods as axes
slung over our shoulders
bearing a newly ground edge
Rising early
bellies full from flapjacks
and coffee. 
Food for a mountainman's workday

And Dad...
Your brother's worked here
And knew it well.
Kenny, Steve, and David
Sons of the Sierra Nevada
all harvested the land
with hardened hands,
leathered skin,
Lowered heads,
Pickled livers
They carved their initials into the mountain
forever
They drowned in the heartbreak
of their passion
Tormented souls found warmth
by the flames of drink
silent as they drown
in the tragedy of a passing age.
A dying race forgotten
Abandoned

And at night...
They wandered home
leaving restless flames
still smoldering
Home again and
Drunk and Somber
Filled with the richness
of their homeland.
Thoughts of the mountains
Lakes, Rivers and Meadows
spinning through their bleary minds
And welcomed as old comarades

And Dad...
Deep within my Grandfather's Drunken eyes
I see the blue Quiet of an evening snowfall
in the woods of my homeland.