A Year Later

Dad

The paths of past footsteps

have become overgrown with

the passage of each season.

The woodpile stands abandon from

the once energetic woodcutter.

Perennial gardens are left unattended

and deprived of the loving care

of its previous owner.

The dirt driveway once eroded

by the daily travel of your Chevy Pick Up

is now the breeding grounds for

a community of thriving weeds.

Your children are left with

remnants of the past

and echoes of your footsteps.

Symbols remain scattered through

your once private domain.

A cup hanging on a stake in the garden,

unused since the last time you needed it

to quench your thirst, after tilling the soil

around the strawberry bed.

A woodcutting bench lies next to

a fallen tree  that was intended for

next year’s wood supply.

The red and black mackinaw and cap

hang on hook inside the back door,

waiting for the hunter to stalk

the autumn woods.

It is in the silence of the woods

from which tall tales and stories

vibrate from familiar sites.

The Indians who are buried underneath

the large hemlock tree,

wisdom of Bathroom Billy,

farmer’s who created the pastures

and who’s fine workmanship created

the rock walls that frame their masterpiece.

Isolated walls covered with aging moss and lichen

symbolize the life of a man,

my dad, who once possessed the same feeling,

and love, like those before him, for nature,

the land, and the ancestors before him.

Your land, your sacred possession is a

testament to your children who once sat

and listened to the sounds of the distant brook,

or deer walking cautiously as subtle breezes,

or listening to private legends and tales.

You are now silent as those moments

Stored away forever in our memories.

Thankfully, we have inherited his wisdom

but it is the Indians of long ago, Bathroom Billy,

and the farmers who have inherited his footsteps,

his gentle manner, and made the legend of the land

ever larger.

 

It is now,

in the cool crisp November air,

the first anniversary of his death,

that I believe you have come to rest inside

a storybook, that you so carefully “wrote”

for us over the years.

You are now a part of the cast of characters

that comes alive in my thoughts and gives me

pride in my past and hope towards my future

and stories that will go on….

Now God keeps you wrapped in love for eternity.

Nancy Prouty March

Nov. 1985