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No one back in Louisville asks
if I’m happy. They pity me,
alone, long winters, no family.

Logging. We scratch ourselves raw
from mosquitoes. Saws cut off
fingers, limbs. Many pack up
for warmer places,
not a city of hardwoods.

Stockton Island surrenders
fall and spring quickly. Winter
ice turns shores jagged.
If I had a son, would I
tell him to try this work?
He’d have to like hearing
wind in trees, smelling peat,

wood smoke, oxen. The company’s
hitting hard times, men
laid off and fired. Maybe
I’m next. What to do
when I leave? I’m full

of trees, birds, the coming
of spring when Superior thaws.

 

originally appeared in Philadelphia Poets (2003)