The Dune

The weathered gray barn squats
between elm grove and sawmill,
where Grandfather brings to life
the monstrous, jagged-toothed saw,
its steely blade my height.

Like the toothpicks of some Bunyan,
the pine trunks await their fate,
at each end weeping amber sap,
trapping would-be scarabs,
and my anticipation.

Watching for Grandmother, I jump—
faded overalls, sky blue blouse,
huckleberry buckets in hand—
as the saw motor starts,
sputters, then growls steadily.

Rattling chains draw logs
to the first of many snarling bites.
Blond chips and dust fly,
settling like resinous sand,
in a pile behind the mill.

Silently the dune beckons
like a Michigan shore
on a sticky August afternoon.
I wade to the top, slide down again
and again in an avalanche

of slivers, until finally,
ready to meet blueberries,
I empty pant cuffs, shake pigtails.
Only the barn notices the slap-and-dash
as I mill the evidence of my trespass.

[This poem was originally published in Pennsylvania English, 2004/05.]