Here is another poem that I wrote for class this semester. It needs a bit of tweaking before I turn in the final copy, but at least I've gotten the words out (that's more than half the battle).
I've been spending a lot of time posting on the blog for our photography business lately: www.bryanruppphotography.wordpress.com
However, I do eventually plan on keeping up on this writing blog in the near future. We've got some exciting changes coming up in our lives that may allow for this so...I'll keep you posted. No pun intended (oh no, my husband is rubbing off on me) :) Anyways, enjoy the poem and let me know what you think.
Homestead
My grandma came home
from a funeral, bringing in a pot,
a tree she received in remembrance of-
I don’t remember who.
She said that I could help her plant it,
and every year after
I marveled to see it grow
the result of my tiny palms
pressed into the dirt,
securing one more Douglas Fir,
safely into it’s dark, native soil.
Shooting out needle green fingers,
It quickly outgrew my measly four feet
and now keeps watch over the creek
where I used to play
on slippery smooth stones,
still in the blissful state before
learning how to tell time, before
knowing that I was not the first
to touch the dirt I found
between my toes, beneath my nails.
Neither was my great-grandfather,
who built the place by hand,
with boards from trees
he was not there to plant,
and with nails from back East
that rusted into the timber and stayed,
curled up in the clouded damp
of an Oregon spring.
