When I was in my teens and twenties, I saw poetry everywhere in the world. No matter where I looked, I encountered phrases that were weird and beautiful. I wrote poetry often, finding inspiration in the mundane and the sacred.
That ability has slipped away from me over the years. I’m not sure if I became more prosaic, or if my brain rewired itself in some fundamentally un-artistic way, but I’m just not as open to word salad as I once was.
Earlier today, I was driving to Bland State Capital, and I seemed to have a brief reconnection with the poetry of my youth. A tractor trailer with nothing but two words written on it: “Junk Wood.”
I spent a fair amount of time wondering what, exactly, junk wood is. And how there could be so much of it to fill a whole tractor trailer. And whether or not I could burn junk wood in my fireplace, to beat the cost of natural gas this winter.
Junk Wood–it’s not just for kindling anymore.