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Here, in the midst of mud and machines, lies a forest.

I went into Molalla yesterday for a William Stafford reading.  He is perhaps Oregon's most famous poet laureate, writing much about nature, and beautiful daily ways to see the world.  I loved his poems.  My friend Kate read one of his and a terrific poem of her own, and Paulann Peterson, Oregon's current poet laureate, spoke eloquently about Stafford while sharing his work and her poetry as well.  Local folks read their own works, bringing up their notebooks of sacred poems to the podium, each person clearly moved by words and wanting so to say it, to share it.  They also brought personal artwork and related it to Stafford poems.  It was quite a gathering.

Here is a poem I wrote after two people spoke and shared their art about logging in the Molalla area, how they see it as what has built this entire community.  I see it as something different.

A William Stafford Reading – Nan Collie

 She has painted a solitary ice skater, under a lemon moon, on a saw.

She tells us all about the feel of ice droplets freezing in mid air,

landing on the hardened pond, turning skaters into gliding light-winged fairies.

Then she tells us of the saw, the history of this region,

proud of logging heritage, the foundation of community,

speaking in such reverence.  She has painted on a saw.

Another man has printed Stafford poems on his photos,

beautiful shots of the Grand Canyon, and a baby blue jay

he has nursed, fallen from its nest, now ready to fly. 

Clearly touched by nature, his last piece is an old logging photo,

men posed and proud, perched on piles of logs, a legacy, all that is left

of old growth forests.  He has printed Stafford on the logging of a hillside.

They speak of generational footsteps here on the land.  I recognize

that I am foreign, moving here two decades ago to be among the trees.

I have no wish to take their lives and level landscapes.  

How does pure blue sky live on the blade of a “hard working” saw?

How does a sepia snapshot of destruction sit in the same conversation

next to the golden mile-high walls of a carving Colorado river?

I am baffled, I ache.  I see the same scene here at home, the trees all taken,

leaving only spirits, the trampled remains of squirrels and birds and ferns.

Nothing proud here in my eyes, no skating on the saws that have taken down my friends.