Dead Space
Feb 25 2017


I was told 
this was an old Finnish tradition.
That the small rectangular shaft
running up the middle of the bungalow
was not a drafting error
or a closet, accidentally boxed-in
but once held a living tree.

That this dead space
was filled with green,
tunneling roots
the zest of spruce
a blanket of needles. 
A tree, to shelter this home
as it sheltered me.

Like Norse mythology, some pagan god
the house deferred to Nature.
As if a reminder
to its planed lumber, kiln-dried wood
of their noble origin.
As if giving  thanks
for the sacrifice of trees,
an act of reverence
for life.

But, of course, a tree would die 
enclosed
deprived of light.
And nowhere could I find
any reference to this custom. 
So it was probably just bad construction;
a builder rushing
or cutting 
before measuring twice.

Still, the idea seems virtuous,
a living tree
in the heart of a house.
And humble, somehow.
That we are temporary.
That we share this land. 

It was axed, in the renovation.
A small bungalow
and I meant no disrespect.



This is a true story. In fact, until a few hours before writing this, I had no doubt that it was true of my former house (which had originally been built by Finns). But when the idea of the poem came to me, I googled just to be sure:  turns out, there is no mention of such an architectural tradition. And giving it more thought, a tree hardly seems practical; at least not without a glass roof and serious pruning!

Did the real estate agent (who was also a 2nd generation Finn) give me this idea? Did I confabulate it?

But true or not, I still love the thought:  a tree running up the centre of a modest frame house; something living -- and that will out-live it -- at its core.