Evening Walk at the Sawmill

by Sarah J. Martin

I walk through aisles of eight by eight,
Past stacks of sturdy six by six;
I breathe the scent of sacrifice
In sawdust, cedar bark, and sticks.

Beneath a huge and placid sky
Where late, rambunctious rain ran by.
Mud puddles beckon, wink, invite,
Steeped in the evening’s drowsy light.

My feet caught in the oozy clay,
The solemn decades curl away;
I’ve left the world of work and men,
And I’m a youngster once again.
The childlike joy makes me forget
The hour grows late, and later yet.
I may return, but presently
There’s only wonder, mud, and me.

Adrift in breeze, home voices call;
The sun’s gone down, and I recall
I’ve “miles to go before I sleep.”
The moon is high, my thoughts are deep;
I’m forty-two, with things to do.

The day is old, but I am new.

Sarah lives in the rocks and trees of cottage country, where she loves family, words, old books and buildings, and light in all its forms.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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