by Matthew Shenoda
Winter lingers on the valley floor
mist rising in its own essence.
We are reminded of the solitary ways we interpret loss
the temporal flash of an old thatch roof
the hands that made a place for us.
A felled tree becomes a home
made of its surroundings
local, in the way our own skin might be.
The markings of a mask,
etched less with a tool
and more the steady hands of a man,
a pattern shaped in the old order,
a scar on the tree
intended to mark a life.
Poem copyright 2020 by Matthew Shenoda. All rights reserved.