Saturday, April 24, 2010

The Backwoods

Stay out of the woods.
There the spring is soft
as fiddleheads reach
upward. Air ambles
in fog and pollen and
imprints left around
the roots of giant pines.
The backwoods, they’re
called; and they call
back, if you’re listening:
moans, grunts, or wails,
like something roams
between the trees and
leaves tufts of hair for us
to find and follow back,
further into the forest.
The stories go far back,
but unless you believe
in fiends, in ghosts, I
will leave the matter

Saturday, April 17, 2010

The Pacific Northwest Reader Giveaway

My contributor copies of The Pacific Northwest Reader came in the mail yesterday, and I'm giving three of them away. I've seen copies of the essay collection on the shelves at Village Books, and I know stores like Elliott Bay Book Co., Powell's Books, Auntie's Bookstore, Eagle Harbor Book Co., and any of the numerous IndieBound stores in the Northwest have them too.

Booksellers, librarians, and former booksellers and librarians have compiled personal stories about their lives in Alaska, Idaho, Oregon, and Washinton to produce a collection about which New York Times bestselling author Garth Stein (The Art of Racing in the Rain) says, "These personal tales are fantastic, fun, and delightful on their own; they're a wonderful patchwork quilt of the region when taken as a whole. I loved this collection!"

Leave a comment here about how you're a Pacific Northwest reader--or reader of any kind for that matter--for your chance to win a free copy of the Reader. Or tweet: @daviewheeler I'm a #PacificNorthwestReader. [Contest ends 5pm (PST) on Monday, April 19, 2010.]

Saturday, April 3, 2010

The Long Saturday

Today, I remember that you died.
Not how or for how long, just
your momentary brush with mortality,
a dull epoch emerging with your exhale.

Since the dark, early morning I've known
your absence and your promise
to return, devoid of faith enough to decide
which is easier to accept completely.

Each hour elapses, and nothing
resolves except the quickness of unbelief.
You wither in my mind just as your body
before you, and my hope before that.

Suppose night remained, weeks passing
only in shadows and snow; and, days
hesitate, and clouds sustain today's grief.
And here, fearful and fitful, I rest.