This poem was written by my younger sister about my dad and his tree farm. He started it in 1976 when I was in junior high school. I share all of these memories with Andra. When we visit now, the saplings are a big, strong forest of beautiful Douglas Fir trees.
Tree Farmer
By Andra Willis
1
Dry, clean, and clear,
The air wisps and waves over rolling hills and jagged peaks.
It dives and dozes in the summer morning coolness,
And traces the lines
Separating the earthy shapes below.
Soft as the whisper of a dragonfly’s wings,
It touches the tops of the grand Douglas firs
Drinking in the deep green,
And twisting down and round the scratchy trunks.
Until it breaks through the evergreen wall,
To the clear cut canyon.
The air weaves through drying brush piles,
But stops short, seeing
A sapling, peeking
From the sea of brown.
And then another.
And another,
The beginning of a new forest.
2
The man grows trees.
He grows children too.
The air gathers round the father and his children,
Who once carried dusty shovels
And burlap bags of saplings.
Later, staplers and papers to foil the deer,
Tin foil to protect from mice.
The air races round the children, their mother and father,
Faces lit by campfire,
Singing with an accordion,
Roasting marshmallows in the glowing coals,
Slumbering.
The air cools to older youth.
With their father,
They wield long pole saws in the drizzling rain,
And then chainsaws,
Pruning and training to grow
Straight and tall, lumber.
It is his farm.
It is their farm.
3
But really it is his farm.
And now the air dips down,
Ruffles gray hair,
And traces wrinkles,
Lines of satisfaction.
Seventy, bent, but sinewy,
The aging man climbs through a stand of trees,
Rows standing at attention
Showing respect.
I will not spend my final years
In a rocking chair,
The thought flows,
And the air embraces
His trees,
His children,
And his memories,
And whispers strength into his ears.
