In my youth, the Oregon Coast

Wasn’t merely the majestic, soundly sea.

Most lived near bays and rivers.

Everyone had a favorite fragrant tree

Species. Lumber flowed from sturdy saw

Mills, and massive wood chip piles

Were as tall as old-growth timber.

Hills of money, memorably ocean bound

As wood chips, were valued to

Paper ideas in an unwrapped world.

Ink’s mate journeyed over the ocean’s

And far land’s rough, winding paths.

Myrtlewood was in every kitchen. Cutting

Boards were a metaphor for harvests

Made deep in the damp forests.

Corporate capital and careful cutters fought

Both each other and private elements.

The timber in the tracks deeply

Held their hopeful and shared imagination.

Many believed in an inexhaustible harvest.

Size and scale were often confused

For constant renewal. Now—cutting boards,

Framed with wood from the forests,

Hold hands with ancestors who remain.