Why Is It

Why is it

to create

I stay up

late

righting

the wrongs

I didn’t do anything

during the day

Why is it

I feel the need

to write

my poem

this way

so poorly digestible

clumped

this is

is this

contemporary art

Why is it

I say:

run off to France with me

as if our feet could carry us

across the ocean

My favorite

friend just doesn’t feel

the way that I feel.

about her:

“I may not be your kind,” rasped out by Garland Jeffreys,

given to me by my dad, on Christmas, with two other CD’s.

Why is it

the talking

can so easily be done by someone else

is this

contemporary art

yet?

January 9

I93, Woods

The interstate highway 93 in New Hampshire cuts through the shallow valleys of the southern part of the state. The surrounding trees end abruptly where the highway emerges. Logging was a fixture of the New Hampshire economy for years, but even before then, there was widespread deforestation to make way for the numerous farms that used to cover New Hampshire.

                Sometimes I imagine what it would look like if the highway had not cut the channels through the forest. Then, I remember that these trees could not be more than two hundred years old. After that, I remember that living in a wooded area means that I do know what standing in the middle of a forest looks like. Oh well.

                My grandfather cut wood on his property for two decades and the wood stoves in his Massachusetts house were fed by his efforts.

                “He loves trees… He loves to cut them down,” my grandmother once said.

                My grandfather split far more wood than he would ever need. He was always looking after the health of trees by removing unhealthy branches or cutting down dangerous suspects. His workshop garage was surrounded by stacks and stacks of wood, waiting the warm the house when need.