UNCLE

He walks the woods no more
this land whose every hill he knows
geodes by the stream
the trail where turkeys file at dawn and dusk.

Right hand upon his dog,
he sits beside the window to watch
the squirrels she used to chase
cache nuts against the coming dark.

A doe, two fawns at clearing’s edge
browse by the lick set out last fall.
Their colors blend with leaves and brush
that hide morels awaiting spring.

His wife is ill. Her malaise named
but without cure. His hips, once limber,
grate now sharply bone on bone.
He lets the dog out, sees her roam.

At his whistle,
she comes trotting home.

Cynthia M. Sheward

Published by

Cynthia M. Sheward

Cynthia Sheward has written poetry since she was a child. She was born in Massachusetts but spent her young life in New Jersey. She applied her English degree from Arcadia University teaching junior-senior high school in Vermont the 70’s. In the 80s, she and her husband built their own house with their own hands in the mountains of North Carolina. In the 90s, she returned to NJ where she worked for a Fortune 500 corporation until her retirement. Her work has been published in Friends Journal, Evening Street, the Bennington Banner, Fiber Arts Magazine, the Mountain Times and various other print media. She currently resides in Jupiter, Florida.

8 thoughts on “UNCLE”

  1. Uncle Dave…thank you

    On Tue, Jul 2, 2019 at 10:20 AM A WELL-TRAVELED HEART wrote:

    > Cynthia M. Sheward posted: ” He walks the woods no more this land whose > every hill he knows geodes by the stream the trail where turkeys file at > dawn and dusk. Right hand upon his dog, he sits beside the window to watch > the squirrels she used to chase cache nuts against the com” >

    Like

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