 Originally featured in an outdoor art exhibit, "Connection to Land," hosted by Agroforestry Northwest, at Raising Cane Ranch in Snohomish, WA (Sep. 2025). It is also the newest version of my poem originally entitled, My Roots Smell Like Diesel.
Roots of Diesel the diesel engine rumbles awake disturbs the dew on leaves of pasture wakes me roots me this start is expected early 6 sometimes 7 days a week the engine idles and warms prepares for a day of hard work down the logging roads up the clear cuts ablaze with sunrises and sunsets the weight of first gear on the gravel drive his boot heavy on the gas pedal the log truck jerks and starts as it grumbles towards the road “Another day at the salt mines,” dad mutters to himself with a sarcastic grin pulling on another Hickory another day working to warm the home to stoke the fire not just a job but a way of life to this day the smell of diesel takes me back to my roots that lumber and wakes me reminds me reminds me
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Skagit Valley strawberry fields sweetened by the Salish sun. Study prep and experiment. Stained fingertips apron and spoon. Pare bubble simmer the tune. Muscles argue and tendons confer push and stir. Steam saps the water from the loam. Strawberry stains the countertop and seines of memory. Flame and flavor pucker the palate. Wound the wrist lick the fist. Mark me. Make me. Save me for pots and pancakes. Warm the stove thresh the fruit. Cradle the jars hot glass cools ladle too far. Fingertips burn and earn. Lids and lips seal drop and pop. 12 hours pass at the morning break. Rows of jars tinny ring all ours dip the knife strike the jelly slakes the belly. Backbone aches cut soil and crown. Strawberry moon begins.
This labor my love runs root deep. A taste experiment a love testament. Let’s repeat. This poem was originally published as a postcard and copies distributed at a local Redmond business (Spark Pizza) as part of Read Local Eat Local, a poetry project by the City of Redmond's Poet Laureate, Ching-In Chen. (Sep. 2025) The rain pelted the leaves as we picked pink raspberries at a nursery out on the
Skagit flats only a few minutes west sits the Salish Sea salt and blue and islands of San Juan to the northeast you’ll run up against a volcano of ice and jutting peaks and to the west rainforest and hills river green it was warm as I plucked and popped a few raspberries in my mouth I couldn’t help but think of miniature roses peeling off the white bulb I’ve always thought roses smelled like raspberries, they are in fact kin these pink translucent beauties definitely look the part with a nice light flavor and color, these were my first the bushes and my clothes heavy with water drupelets droplets we keep picking – daydreaming about jam and compote and berries atop mountains of oatmeal and crisps and cobblers and summitting peaks and dessert at the top standing eye height, I nuzzle into the bushes and breathe in earth and breathe out my prayer for bees – already thinking about next year’s raspberry rain This poem was originally published as a postcard and copies distributed at a local Redmond business (Hoffman's Fine Cakes and Pastries) as part of Read Local Eat Local, a poetry project by the City of Redmond's Poet Laureate, Ching-In Chen. (Sep. 2024) Kukutali Preserve, near La Conner, WA
by Cora Thomas and Adam Lafayette C = Cora A = Adam C A swan of clouds stretch across the sun-streaked sky A Madrona blossoms crest and brim pebble and barnacle C Blackberry flowers and dips in the shadows A Is it the weight of light or darkness that holds us against the moss? C The cry of the eagle comes first and then wings of wind A Lost in the salal the roots strangle the spring C Worms rise with the sun and settle to the bumbles of bees A Lament, gulls scowl the horns of trembling tides C Do you live behind the fingernail moon? C White as clouds like your hair turned streaked and scattered the sky A From the shipwreck of sound the bard builds the isle, destroys his instrument, and worships the silence C Lupine on the shores of salt, dreams of alpine whispers A Clams pipe at my footsteps the rumbling of the diesel engine
wakes me roots me this sound is expected early 6 sometimes 7 days a week in my daze I imagine the dew disturbed perturbed on the leaves of pasture the engine idles warming in preparation for a day of hard work the heaviness of first gear on the gravel driveway intentional in its labor the log truck jerks and starts as it grumbles towards the highway “another day at the salt mines,” dad mutters to himself with a sarcastic grin another day working to warm the home another day working to fill a need that satisfies not just a job but a way of life to this day the smell of diesel takes me back takes me back home to my roots that lumber and wake me reminds me reminds me The fog lifts
Just enough To spot 2 coyotes On the hillside They follow A Path Well worn Of blood and vein As if their footsteps Alone Lifted the fog Clearing the rain to finally See to finally Be In a world that speaks Back to me The cottontail ruminates The Douglas squirrel Launches from tree to tree The red-tailed hawk beckons to the lee And the towhee and chickadee spree Coyotes trod on mud and stone In the lift I am them and They are me My dress is frayed at the ends
That’s what saltwater does to cotton Wears it down Like stone Washes away the color Smooths out the wrinkles Until what’s left Wants to start at the end And feel its way back to the beginning Over every rough over every silk Where the threads are strong and sure of themselves Until what’s left My scarf is frayed at the ends That’s what wind and salt does to cotton Wears it down Like stone Fades color Pushes wrinkles Smooth Until what’s left Is loosely wrapped around my neck Failing to hold me together So I don’t sail away Until what’s left I.
Her seeds float down from the canopy. Gives into grace and holds knowledge not quite hidden. Leap to the forest floor where the apathetic passersby dare to notice. Like debutantes their DNA is capable and untethered. Fly from mother to begin again. To sense the church of been. In between pavement and moss, I bend over to touch the fibers. Absence matters on the skin. If you can’t feel something, does that mean it’s not there? Significant in its insignificance indeed. Attention proceeds. As the hypnosis descends, I want to tip my head back and open my mouth to catch them. Like a child would at the fair. Individual bites of cotton candy or even snow. The way they float low. The way they let go. let go. and know. Cottonwood seeds line the path where I walked this evening. Huddled beside the asphalt as if they knew that congregating in numbers would get them noticed. It worked. II. Cottonwood seeds line the path where I once walked and led me down Candyland Lane. Led me to summer days. Backyard barbeques. Laughing for the ones I love. Warmer temperatures warm the heart. warm the heat. sleeveless tops and flips that flop. Strands fly far on the wind and propagate in moist and mud….dry river bottoms….and lake shallows. These water searchers and thirst perchers grow long hair like Goldilocks – but conditions need not be just right. As saplings guzzle, months and years pace by. Their stature stretch shade and bring respite in the heat waves and picnic saves. When met with fire imagination ignites and destroys summer’s rage. Tea bark heals. a stew that speaks. and taps into the shallow roots to rouse the past and watch the future sleep. Possibility simmers and conjures a canoe to steer the stars. Pen its paper to always know the mate of mars. Cellulose led me to imagine my future as the last sow from the last pitch finds my crown contained. Warmth of scalp and skull. Roots grab hold and nerves interfold. Knowledge syncs through veins of conscious. into the vane of cosmos…..jagged leaves clatter a ballad…..sing a vision….pluck a song of dreams. …..where cottonwoods imagine and I dive into the stream. a campsite
lakeside view hills that sail a lake sunlight and shadow cat’s paws a fishing pole flies and casts damselfly nymphs a kite wind and sky string fights a boat pontoons and oars muscle glides a birdhouse acrylic paint and brush splinters blush a game of rummy suits and faces laugh to win a moon planets and meteor night-light licks a sun burn and wakes the waterside a sunset colors the scene eat the sky the wildlife health and hunger instinct moves a campfire spark and light smoke that binds a birdhouse scenes of flight waxwing and flycatcher a kite pontoon glides muscle that oars a fishing pole clubs to spade then lose to win a lake string the sky and wind the game a moon paints and brushes stroke the dark a sun cats that paw and damsel flies a campsite planets and meteor constellation prize a campfire instinct stands and moves distinct the wildlife the water wakes and tongues that burn a sunset lakeside sail and hills that view a game of rummy fish that fly and casts that dive a love father and daughter cannot be caught nor released Raspberry jam
learn prep and experiment Each breath tales trust inhales and doubt exhales Let’s begin – Strained stained fingertips apron and spoon Rubies bubble briar blood simmer the tune Muscles soar push and stir boil toil and confer Steam rising anticipation foils sap water soils Stains splash counter tops and pops Sticky signatures memory of sein and rain Of flame and flavor mallet pucker the palate Wound the wrist lick the fist marked me made me saved me Pans and pots root swarm the stove press the fruit cradle in jars and ladle too far hot glass cools as fingertips burn and yearn as fingertips fool it’s a waiting game lids and lips pop drop and seal tips dip and drop the sound of success the mark of progress 12 hours pass as the morning breaks the kitchen takes Rows of jars tinny ring and pars dip the knife strike the jelly slakes the belly jeweled gold at summer’s end gruel the bone as fortune’s grown this labor my love stain for need runs fire deep a taste experiment a love testament Let’s repeat – |
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November 2025
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