He walks the woods no more
this land whose every hill he knows
geodes by the stream
the trail where turkeys file at 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.
When he whistles,
she trots slowly home.
Cynthia M. Sheward
A WELL TRAVELED HEART 
Love it! I can almost picture what you are describing in the poem. Lovely!!
LikeLike
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” >
LikeLike
Really like this poem. Sad and very nostalgic.
LikeLike
Lovely.
LikeLike
Thank you.
Cindy
LikeLike
I wrote it shortly before my uncle died. He was an amazing man. I miss him.
Cindy
LikeLike
Love you. We were lucky to have him.
C
LikeLike
My favorite uncle. He died a few years ago and I still miss him. He loved animals and birds
and walking in the woods. Our kind of guy!
Love you,
Cindy
LikeLike