Red Timber

by SilentBelle

Red Timber

Red Timber
By: SilentBelle

A sunset carves out the silhouette of a pony,
Redder than the blaze behind him.
He places wood evenly upon a stump.
Clenched in his teeth, the axe swings,
Hits.

The refreshing burn of the action, the rhythm;
Flush blood pumping, and even breaths.
Something stirs within as he clears the stump.
Swinging once again, the new Timber
Splits.

Memories of a sunset return to his mind,
And the glistening shine of his cutie mark.
Replacing the wood with a thump,
He swings a third time, fast through the
Grain.

Before him, a fire burns brightest against the night's onset.
It glistens, as a heartbeat in her eyes.
Under a passionate stare, he swallows a nervous lump.
He shakes his head fierce, to cut the memory in
Twain.

But the memory will not subside at this hour.
No matter if he strikes out at it in full,
It remains unblemished by his material nature,
Untarnished, shimmering and whole.

The backdrop of the now-set sun overcomes the furnace behind him.
His mouth opens agape at the memory of her sight.
The Silver Lilly shares the nearby fireside with him,
Her mane bloomed to both sun and moon in the golden light.
The breeze tugs through those flowing petals,
Carrying the scent of a meadow in full bloom.
Her eyes alight, glistening brighter than the stars,
Fall upon him; they drink him in and consume.
So she watches him, joy distorting the stars of her eyes,
As she smiles proudly, unimpeded by anything but the present.
He got his cutie mark, and with it, the memory of her subtle smile,
The real treasure, without which, all before had been absent.

He blinks to see time pass, hours, days, and weeks,
Finding his home of Canterlot, alabaster and wood.
Across the street, he has come to a stop as he sees her again;
The Silver Lily, in wholesome sunlight stood.

How such a pony could exist, he knows not.
So he watches from across the city, and over days,
A smile crops up, subtly gracing his lips.
He strains his ears to listen for what she says.
A Silver Lily who speaks of flowers and their every meaning,
Of romance, dreams, and a flower shop to share such treasures.
Her eyes alight at visions of the future as she speaks,
And he's included in the conversation for good measure.
But he knows not how to interact with such a glowing flower,
So he listens to her every word, and longs to truly understand
Her future, which glows bright enough to spur her
To laughter, smiles, and to make a single moment so grand.
After she retreats back to her daily life,
He's left alone, but quite fulfilled for many hours.
He picks up his axe, with renewed vigor, swinging,
He tries to understand the wood as she understands flowers.
His mark and hers, they aren't so different, he understands.
For once he sees a future, and lays out his plans.

He passes the months and years, rhythmically,
Growing slowly under the glow of her eyes.
They talk of flowers, the woods, and all their meanings,
Through sunsets, and oft 'til sunrise.

A day dawns in gold and silver through the streets of Canterlot,
To find the Red earth pony with a fore-hoof held in surprise at his throat.
The visiting Silver Lily wears a knowing smile from the doorway,
And between her teeth she holds a single lily, as red as his coat.
Orange was for friendship, that he knew,
As red was for passion—a meaning she couldn't mistake.
A knowing smile blooms to his lips.
With a single tear of joy and a trembling kiss, he accepts her gift. He shakes
In their shared embrace and forgets all but the moment for a time,
Until, as one, they dream of their new future.
Together they walk, those richly gilded streets,
Destinies entwined, devoted and sure.

As passionate as the moment is, time never ceases,
And so another day dawns in the following years.
In his eyes, she glistens from the bed beside him, warm and close,
Where they plan their future—parenthood—and face the accompanying fears.

They grow toward their goal, she, a spiraling Lily,
Accepts the Red Timber, and rises as one with him.
Her decoration upon his bark, gives the tree purpose, a height to reach, a reason to grow,
So that she too may climb with him and reach together, along with his limbs.
As one, they watch a single Blossom form on their tallest branch,
And from it, a precious fruit grows in quiet grace.
Together they wait, as the seasons change, and every day they check the branch.
It holds firm and sturdy, the rough bark tempered with the Lily's entwining embrace.
They hold fast through heat and cold, and churning storms,
Waiting until they feel the movement of the Blossom come to life.
With a smile, together they share the moment,
Lovers, parents, husband and wife.

The Blossom is born
Into the comforting embrace of parents and their dreams for her.
The child smiles so purely,
Holding her parents' love tight and dear.

Oh Blossom, our daughter, we watched you grow.
From the foal that we held, and cradled so slow,
To the filly that sang, for all of us to know,
To the young mare that gave more than she showed.

We saw your new mark of singing flowers,
When you came home soaked from springtime showers.
Sang to us a dream sprouting from your own powers,
While we were held captive, and listened for hours.

Your love of music grew strong and true,
You left from home, with your career to pursue.
Your mother eager to help, went with you.
I told you, “Farewell. I love you...” I still do.

But then came that note, later that night,
With a knock at the door, I woke with a fright.
Stumbling down stairs, I found a candle to light,
And opened the door to see a dreadful sight.

Officer, in uniform, with dark expression,
He offered a note, of grim impression.
By light of candle, I read words of strange invention,
I couldn't understand the short letter's intention.

You were gone, it remarked, so simply,
An accident while traveling, an unfair tragedy.
The words were harsh, cold, simple, and stabbed at me.
With a shout, I collapsed. For you were gone—my family.

The Lily's comforting tangle slid from my branches,
The Blossom was taken in autumn's stormy dances.
Left alone, I let go my leaves, sown to wind's lashes.
My rough bark held me still, within me, grief pooled in stashes.

“Why?” The question remained, as sturdy as my trunk,
It gripped me tight as if in a bog, I was sunk.
But upon the wind, I heard your voice cry out,
“Don't give up, father!” It was a howling shout.

The sun still rose in spite of my will,
And life moved on, calling at me still.
So I continued on, with no dream held tight,
Empty and hollow, no one to guide me right.
I am lost without her, to hold me up so sure.
I am lost without you, to show me the future.

Oh, Blossom, our daughter, I hear a melody,
Your song, your gift—the voice of beauty.
And under the chorus which stirs my tree,
I see you both still, and what you still mean to me.

Everything.

A sunset remains, creating a haloed silhouette,
And shining red streamers down his shadowed face.
He places the final log upon his stump,
With teeth clenched in grief, his axe swings,
Stings.

He sets down his worn axe,
The only companion of his memories.
The burn of an aging body has him breathing heavy,
But it's a feeling he's grown accustomed to.
Just as the memories.
They hurt, but they have carved him,
As he carves the Timber,
One swing at a time.

With a tired smile,
He waits for what the future might bring.

Author's Note:

Inspired by a number of people expressing interest in Red Timber as a character. I felt like it had been a while since I wrote a poem, and decided to go all-out free-form and I decided that exploring more of Red Timber could be a great focal point for a small project like this one. It was a fun piece to write. Thanks for reading.

Also, if inspiration hits again, I imagine I might do a fun poetic project pertaining to Ruben...

Comments

[FluttaShift]

Well written and cute, but also sad. I liked it. Good job!

[Rametep]

Poems are hard to do and you did a pretty good job here so I am inpressed

[Pegasus Assistant]

I don't often see poetry on this site. Maybe I'm not looking.
Anywho, thank you for this wonderful, sad poem. And too, for the story it came from.

[SilentBelle]

3778518 I'm glad some people enjoy the poem. It validates the effort behind it. Thanks for reading

[dancing mop]

Ooh, you might do Reuben, too? Wonderful! Poetry can be so refreshing.

[Silent Strider]

I can't enjoy the poem as it should be enjoyed; English is not my first language, but something I learned from books. The rhythm of the language eludes me, and even the rhyme can be fleeting because I don't know how every word should sound.

Despite this, it was enjoyable. You painted some old images in a new light, in a new frame and style. And while - given my limitations - I enjoy your prose more, I wouldn't mind reading more of your poetry.

[The Letter J]

There's just something great about poetry that makes me love it. Maybe it's that a poem somehow expresses more than what the words way. Maybe I just really like rhyme. Whatever it is, you've done it well.

[SilentBelle]

3821870 Thank you. I'm glad there are a few people that found this endeavor worthwhile. And of course, writing it, regardless of who else ended up reading it was what made it worthwhile in the first place, but having more people enjoy reading it adds that much more to its importance.