A Wandering

My neck of the woods here- was yours- a couple of generations ago. But it's all mine, today. I was on my way to do some errands and was about to whiz by your old farm. But I found my tires screeching, and the gravel flying, as I stopped to soak up a bit of your old place.

It's looking quite tidy, in case you're wondering. There's a group of folks here in Derry who watch over her. They've been working like field horses ever since the sun decided to shine a little light on our winter worn shoulders.

They've cleared all the dead limbs that had fallen, bony hands all about the yard, scratching at the bulkhead, begging to be let in. The ground is bare of stray leaves and looks all rake-scratched and happy. I saw that there were some yellow green tongues, daffodils, I think, coming up by the fistful, all along the base of the fence. Made me smile to see the green, even though there are still some lingering pockets of snow, out there in the woods, behind your place.

The two hundred year old sugar maple is gone. They had to cut it down last fall. It was feared that a heavy winter storm or a glaze of ice might bring the giant down on the head of your old house. I know. That was your special tree, the tree at your window. I was there when the buzz saw bit at her and brought her down, in stages. She didn't surrender easily, you'll be happy to hear. Nobody wanted her to go. I think she knew. The air shook with your poetry, as she crashed down. She must have been comforted with the sweet songs of you. The ones you penned under the black shadows she threw across the field.

When I gaze across that field, I can see you tramping towards the woods. In my mind's eye, you're always wearing some old black pants, nearly gray, faded from so many washings and sunny airings on that clothesline, strung from the barn to the tree. You're usually wearing some old black boots, too, only half laced up. If it's chilly, you're wearing an old barn coat. It's unbuttoned and it flaps at your sides like a swallow's wings. I get that. It's a damn bother to take all that time to get properly trussed up. The sun is going down and the orange light is gilding the bare black trees. Gotta go. Gotta get out there. 

You're trudging toward the tree line. Your hair is a shock of white-stick straight. It blows every which way in the breeze. Might want to have your wife take a pair of shears to that hair, tonight, Robert. But it can wait. Later, when you come in from the woods smelling of dirt and pine, rubbing your hands together to get the blood back into them.

But for now, be off to the woods. Quick, before the light's gone.

Your wife, Elinor, is there in the kitchen. She watches you from the window. You don't see her. The bending sun lights the panes and hides her behind those golden mirrors that reflect the clouds. You turn back and look toward the window, just in case she's there. You point up at a pillow of clouds that have floated together to make a heart. You point again and softly clap those weathered hands, place them over your heart, and then throw your hands toward her, hoping she sees you tossing her your heart. And then you turn to the woods, where the trees wait to whisper in your ears. Tell you things that we want to hear. Tell you things that we feel, but can't quite put the words to. Not like you do.

Be off, old fellow. I'll be here when you return.