This poem is set at my father’s cabin and reminds us, that places are not the same, without the people we expect to see there. A toast to all those we miss this winter! Thanks for coming by to read.
In dreams, I slowly seek to climb
The staircase of my father’s house,
The knotted pine beneath my tread,
The beams above, that scrape the boughs.
Out West, the mountains lift the sky
And spread a sunset tablecloth
Across the clouds, now pink, now gray,
The flanking forest, fringed with moss.
I sit upon his smoky chair
And gaze upon the view he picked.
Upon the planks, he sank and smoked,
And found his tribe, among the sticks,
And burned the refuse of each storm,
And trimmed six months of tangled grass,
And walked the dog down rutted lanes
So steep, that none but fools would pass.
To be alone, to lose onesself
In bird song chorus, insect whirr;
To be a hermit on a hill
Was all he wanted, after her.
And now he’s gone, the house passed on.
The cabin’s chinks wheeze wild with wind.
And suddenly, I feel so old.
The woods, at last, are one with him.
Copyright 2021 Andrea LeDew