The Sound Between the Pines
Legacy, surrender, and two poems now spoken into being.
Some poems live fine on the page. Others don’t sit still. They ask for air, for the pause and catch of a voice. They ask to be carried differently — through the throat, through the hush that follows a line.
Two of mine have already appeared here: Smoke in the Pines and Beneath the Tamarack. You may have read them. But I’ve gone back to them, spoken them aloud, and set them down again — this time as recordings.
I wanted to hear how they moved outside of ink. To feel how they leaned when lifted by breath. It’s not performance, exactly — more like sitting close to a fire and letting the words smolder in their own time.
Smoke in the Pines
This one is rough-edged. A poem about legacy, land, and the ache of living honest. Told in smoke, memory, and silence between the trees. It carries a weight that’s both personal and older than me — the kind of weight you only notice when the woods are quiet.
Beneath the Tamarack
A softer strength. This one lives in surrender, in the kind of survival that bends rather than breaks. About letting seasons turn, and trusting that endurance can be quiet. That there’s power in patience.
I’ve added the audio because I believe poems don’t just belong to the eye. They belong to the ear, the body, the moment between two breaths. Maybe hearing them will open another door into the same house.
🎙️ [Listen to Smoke in the Pines]
🎙️ [Listen to Beneath the Tamarack]
Thanks for returning to these with me — for listening as well as reading. The poems are the same, but the way they travel might be different.