Uncle's Chair
Those long days gone by
in wisps of Autumn fields
how rare that it was at
Uncle Paul's in October.
He kept the orchard smooth as horse skin,
the grass cleanly mowed.
And the sidesteps were trimmed and
neat, no weeds in his backyard grew.
Sitting within this hunk of splendor
was his cozy cottoned hammock,
a cradle that welcomed me
to lie under a mantle of clouds.
How he would hand out bread-sticks
that were crunchy as his laughter
watching the ivy drop on our shoulders,
then he would sleep in his patio chair
thinking he would never get old--
yet he murmured lightly of warm endings.
For Poet Destroyer A
100 in a ROW contest --3
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