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,
understood
that he was honoring
the forest
creating art
from each dead tree
he cut with Love.
The two bridges
crossed
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
awakening
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…
