For My Sister Maia, the Carpenter
So split the sweet-woods, gotten at the yard,
and harmonize Montana’s russet towns
with well-laid beams. But please don’t disregard
the western coast, the otter’s plaintive sounds
sealing the continent up like a wax,
where Dad plods badly on in Shady Cove.
Some old familial knots survive the axe,
some few. And at one hopeful time he drove
some nails in logs for us; so, you might choose
to lash a cabin up in Ashland’s hills,
with steep gutters, to deflect the heavy rain,
and use expansive pine, and build it loose.
But find us dark wood, pressured, that has all
the warp of origins, the needed stain.
– john rauschenberg