Slash–A Poem

The trees are down,
Dying cedars, no great loss,
Condemned to the wood stove,
Useful only as heat.

We cut slash, drag it out
Buck logs into rounds,
Leave a tidy grove,
Much like floods push out the weak and recede.

When the parched field drinks first rains
We light the piles and watch them burn.
Green boughs complain loudest,
Snapping and spitting sparks
That die in the damp grass.
Then we leave, letting night consume the cinders.

This poem will be published this summer in the Timberline Review, a literary magazine produced by the Willamette Writers, headquartered in Portland but with chapters throughout the state.  The magazine will also publish another of my poems, “The Crummy Ride,” posted earlier on this website.  Here’s the link:  Of course I encourage folks to support the Willamette Writers. Here’s their website:, and here’s the website for The Timberline Review:

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