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