Propped on blocks, the front half of a Packard car rides the hillside like a chip of wood on the crest of a wave. It's part of the sawmill. That Packard engine runs it, or did. The rest, the belt, the Belsaw carriage and blade, stands aside in disrepair. Except for the pine seeds gophers have stashed in the tailpipe, there's no sign of anything living. The gull-wing hood is rusted cinnamon, latched over chrome priming cocks, one for each cylinder. Every board in every building here was milled on power from that old car, out of timber cut here too. Even shingles. It's been here since 1925, winters piling onto its forehead like a mother's hands. It's weathered them like a son. Just because it hasn't been run since 1956 is no reason to think it won't run now: waves have traveled thousands of miles to give us small gifts; pine seeds have waited years to be asked. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MY FIRST LOVE, MY MOTHER by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI NORTH-WEST PASSAGE: 3. IN PORT by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON THE MOON by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON THE SUN'S TRAVELS by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON PAMPINEA by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH A NAMELESS EPITAPH (2) by MATTHEW ARNOLD IN JUNIOR YEAR by WILLIAM GRANT BARNEY |