The  writer

In Sigs cabin
There’s a pipe stand
with three or four
of his.

Maps on the walls, and
doggerel shaped books watch
me from shelves
as my fingers inch
towards His old
keys.

The chair feels right.
Desk a little low for my
taste,
but the pipe stem
has me
in its grasp
and with the sound of
wind through
the stretching pines overhead
I can see
the blue smoke swirling
round my head.

Thick and dark
like the tannins in the waters
that wind from creek and stream
dripping into the lakes
of the Boundary Waters.

—Timothy James Stouffer

 

Page 7 of the Fall 2016 Newsletter