To Plant or Not to Plant a parody in iambic pentameter by Sarah Schenker

To plant seedlings, or not to plant seedlings,

That is the question, often I ponder.

Whether ‘tis saner in the mind to suffer

A summer’s worth of Murphy’s Law and pain,

Or to pack thy tent and to a cubicle,

For to spend those warm and primal months of life

Safe from slash and sweat and tendonitis,

From spruce rash and The Claw and yellow flagger.

Surely we have all dreamed of dropping bag

And hurling shovel, a perfect triple arc,

Thunking neatly into the nearest stump,

And walking triumphantly off the block?

Aye, such a dream must heavy each planter’s heart

From time to time, and yet, dare we to act,

To shrug off the burden of endurance

And the spurns driven deeper into our backs

By over-zealous, self-righteous checkers?

Indeed, why withstand us the hordes of horse flies

Thicker than the hide God giveth to a moose,

Logged slopes more treach’rous than the Gates of Hell

With their hidden pitfalls, a thousand feet

Down, to land amidst ravenous cougars,

When we might, by the virtue of our own two feet

Liberate us from the Almighty Block?

Ah, but who among us hath crossed over,

Dropped DEET and run for civilization,

And returned to tell of what evils await?

It seems we would rather an evil known

Than one that looms essentially formless.

The weight of one’s bank account after all

The boxes are in the ground, weighs rather

Pleasantly in the aching, tired mind.

Thus we are shown slightly irresolute

In our choice, the lesser of two evils,

We are frozen not particularly

Desiring either of these demons be,

Yet planting seedlings in out active doubt.

Bare Roots by Bob Winegar

the date, June 22, 1972
my birthday
the birth day of Norman White's daughter
who entered this world
amidst the tumult and rage
of a lightning storm
that swept up the Kootenay Lake above Kaslo

John Morton, Bradford Cowern and I stood
high above the lake that afternoon
peeking above the rain swollen clouds
looking down upon jagged spikes of lightning
buffeted by their thunderous reports

hooting and screaming
electrified by the aerial spectacle
behind us
just outside the small cook tent
a massive wheel of cheddar cheese
with a cruising axe embedded in it
just the tool
to cleave a slab
for a sodden, rustic meal

Planting the early days
Bob Winegar
Mendocino CA

snow day by Michael Thys

june 25th, 2007 - snow day


though i am sad that in two weeks the lines of my skin won’t be obvious with dirt,

that i won’t hold my hand out the window of a pickup at the end of the day, the created wind turning it into a bird’s wing that i only feel, don’t look at, not wanting to miss each vivid instant of openings between trees and down creeks as they reveal and shut,

that the plateaued callouses which i held toward the falling snow this morning will soon be gone from lack of need,

and cobwebs of city life will begin to accumulate in my body once more and there will no longer be an easy filling out to the furthest reaches of my skin during that morning time first bag,

that the weather will again be something through a pane of glass that folks talk about to have something in common, rather than my cold arm from the sleeping bag to one more snooze button, or sandpaper shoulderstraps from yesterday afternoon’s overindulgence in the sun,

how my lifted fingernail patiently pushes out its black raven’s beak, and deep tributaries of the same colour in the valleys between my pointer and thumb, and the callouses on my palm underneath each finger welling up faster than they are worn down, how all of this becomes:
my own body returning to me fresh the marvel i felt as a child at the gentle and obvious power of my dad’s hands; him finally home from work and me unable to believe he didn’t notice when and couldn’t tell me how he got that cut and this blood blister,

soon enough these shin and forearm scabs will become purple lines then fade,

as will memories of whoops and yells and aye-yeayh-yeayhs as someone turns up the beats in the green dodge and a spontaneous dance party begins, with stomping in pools of logging road ooze and people smiling big and everyone in this together; a victorious moment because the snow is beautiful and jerry has made the call and there will be no trees planted today, it’s a long weekend now. this day is a gift.

and even though it is a gift, we all know we’ve won it, because as the elevation grew and the rain turned to sleet we somehow fought and hoped and closed our eyes and manifested heavy flakes and changed the lyrics of the choruses of songs to ‘snow!’ and we’ve pulled through, the day is ours.

so now peel off the fingers and throw the shiny and ready duct tape out the moving window, and we are back to camp before 10am for big joints and a drive into town to the aquatic center with its hot tub; or red wine, brandy, jokes and poker in the weatherhaven; or more than a chapter in the book and every mornings’ wish of back into the sleeping bag while outside rain spatters and rolls down the tarp. this day is a gift.