Timberman, wielding an ax, a drunkard
who yelled and hit? I can only concoct you,
Grandfather, for no one will say what you
really were. Your photographs are mock-ups
of my father and sister: crooked nose,
brow turned firm over eyes bluer than steel.
This much I know from what little I know:
Your fiddle bow scraped through blistering days
like a crosscut saw through hardwood—Sourwood
Mountain, Woodchopper’s Breakdown, Temperance Reel—
your singing voice was coarse and high, an echo
lumbers through this dream I had: You’re teaching
George Harrison to play your banjolele
both of you grinning and stomping your feet!