29 September 2026
(4 March 2016) Here is the final stanza from the title poem, “Ode to a Stump Farm,” for our readers enjoyment:
Sorrow pierced
my heart, my hands
itched
desire to cut
wood, repair fences.
Looking across the meadow,
tall grass moving,
waves rolling over a sea of gold,
my eyes rested on
cedar stump, last
of great-grandpa’s cutting,
thick as I am, tall as me
cut
during winter of ’22,
one of many timbers, replacing
bridge
washed away by chinook melted snow.
Stump tipped over,
eight sticks of dynamite
detonated at sunrise,
waking
neighbors for miles,
celebrating
Independence Day, 1945.
We never thought that going back and seeing everything neglected and in disrepair would so affect us, but some things had not changed, and to illustrate this point, we draw attention to the stump of a cedar, behind which we constructed our first outhouse. This stump was pushing eight feet across, about six feet in height, another of the many trees cut to replace the Long Bridge in Sandpoint. Another family tale was that my great-grandfather blew it over with dynamite to celebrate Independence day and the recent victory in Europe. My construction, the outhouse, was long gone, but the stump remained, another shard of memory. Come back Thursday for another edition of the Poet’s Corner! Get this collection from your favorite ebook store, or in print from the link provided. Good reading!
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