Found this piece in the shack yesterday, hadn’t been inside in a few weeks and the paper on which this poem was written was actually covered in hoarfrost as were the walls and ceiling of the shack (yes, it’s un-insulated). I wrote this piece back in December one night when I was contemplating sleeping out in the shack and writing all night as my family was away in Fairbanks. Turned out I wasn’t tough enough, even a few glasses of bourbon didn’t fend off the cold, so I spent maybe an hour in the shack filling with breath clouds from myself and my two dogs, and of all that was written that night, this is all that remains.
_____________
finding a place…
could it be anything more
than the meaning of life?
finding a place
where even bad weather won’t
undo your love for
the land on which
you shoulder gails
armed with rubber boots
and the sheep’s gift
timelessly
keeping even damp hearts
warm
seldom
may be sunshine
this is where
to believe in
whatever-you-call-it
your spirit
finding new ways every
day
becomes ocean
becomes mountain
snow rain
cloud
pine
dwarfted but electric
with age
or white noise
warming and humming
beneath the surface
sea
soil
sphere
wrapping earth fingers
around root
and
lips
parted
eyes rolled
breath puffing
a place
could it be anything more?
leave?
but how root-bound
with resent
with foot
on muddy
cold-water beach
toes curled around
mussel crusted rock
not parting
or rolling stoning
but mossing over
this forest
beside the sea
seeding
the understory
of this life
hail from lichen
and cloud pine
world
this one
the secret
Jonas Lamb 