Between Two Trees and The Commute

These are fun poems, mostly because I get to see my son as he was back then and get to be reminded of that wonderful month of our lives.

Between Two Trees

Between two trees,
an old Ponderosa
and a young Fir,
we pitched our tent,
my son and I,
our home for July.
Thirty feet upslope
we built our house,
one pier at a time,
four bags per pier,
300 lbs per pier,
30 holes to mix and fill
with 9000 lbs of concrete
by the hand
of a 17 year old boy
sharing a tent
on a mountain
between two trees.
(poem continues below)

He gained his PhD and
passed the bar that July,
becoming proficient
in the subtle operation
of a post hole digger
in delicate collaboration with
a 30 lb steel bar.
After thirty days,
a 20' by 30' cabin built,
we left the mountain,
descended 7,000 feet,
the father 10 lbs leaner,
the son, 10 lbs gained
in callus and muscle.
Not one complaint
as he morphed
into manhood.
These days, 15 years later,
he is ½ my age but
twice the man and
I was there to see it happen
between two trees.

This is my beautiful 17 year old boy after putting in the last nail.

                  The Commute

         The sun rose into our tent
at 5:35, all charm and soft whispers,
            with colors of gentility.
By 6:00 the light becomes insistent.
           We throw off our bags
             and cover our eyes,
     hoping for a little more sleep.
               By 6:30 our tent
             is intolerably warm
         and so we rise grumpy,
         disoriented and stupid,
            unwilling to accept
         that the day is upon us
          with nowhere to hide.
     We drink our coffee staring
       at the boulders around us,
          the same ones where,
                 just last night,
    the firelight played shadows
                 on the lichen.
              At their base sits
              a small, cold pile
               of coal and ash
         within a ring of stones.

     Sixty feet upslope from us
        the cabin is beginning
               to take shape.
           By 7, my son and I
         are dressed for work,
    and we make the arduous
     trek past the camp chairs,
           over the boulders,
           through the grass
and up between the floor joists.
          We swing onto the 
     the brand new deck and
      buckle on our pouches.
   In the warming air the smell
  of new lumber is everywhere.
          Best commute ever.