My Cousin John Poem by Nick krakana

Some call home
A place of bricks from clay
Others mark dates
On calendars each day

My cousin John
Traveled the bush his way
Rolling along in a grader by day
Rich men worry about money so envy his way

Cousin was in his lair
Out there in baptismal bush air
Greeting the moose and bear
And all other wildlife out there

Getting back snuggly at forty below
To his trailer buried in northern snow
He lay down imagines to himself
If only I could make roads on high

This gypsy blood we cousins do share
He imagines himself way out there

Through the bush cousin John opened the way
When the need be he'd work fifteen hours a day
After day after day after day

The bush is steadfast with never changing ways
Like a starry winters night
She makes things right

A road builder not a politician
Nor a lawyer he be
Johns mind filtered through a working mans day
As boulders rolled off the edge of his blade

Music to his ears
Smoothing out the way

Each bend in his road a new tapestry be
Offered up more of the Creators majesty
On frosty winter mornings at minus thirty three

John a pioneer like Father like Son
Building a land with working hands

His roots burrow down deep
Into warm summer sands
Were the birch and pine
Cast shadows so fine

Were time is set
To a seasons change
The largest gear
In a time peace range

Nick Krakana
January 27th 2021
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