Two Bridges

The felled trees

scented the air

with pungent pine

and spruce.

I watched this boy

carve the planks

that would become

the bridges,

not even minding

the whine of

the chain saw

because I trusted him,

his skill,


that he was honoring

the forest

creating art

from each dead tree

he cut with Love.



The two bridges


the brook

binding the forest

to the hills

in both places…


One path leads

to the pool

where fishes swim

and I find refuge

from intolerable heat

bathing in crystal waters.


The other touches

a granite boulder

lets me climb

the rise to a child’s

room, hidden away

under balsams

and one intrepid cedar.


Someday I hope

to spend the night

inside the small

porch… sleeping

soundly, soothed

by flowing waters


in peace

like I used to

when my children

lived –

and bears

roamed silently

through fragrant trees.


For now

I cross this second bridge,

stand there

acknowledging the dead,

thinking of him,

steeped in longing…