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LETTERS FROM BOBOLINK FARM
By Barbara Tatham Johnson

 



OCTOBER CABIN

By Nancy Brady Cunningham

pine needles drop
like strands of golden rain
crows scatter the quiet
squawking against blue sky
an osprey cries its high pitched scream

by nightfall the cabin warms
beyond the porch
a harvest moon rises
its yellow-orange matches our fire
a loon’s hyena laugh the only sound

next morning my husband still asleep
I slip down to the pond
watch the mist lift—
incense offered to the gods
the veil thins I envision
the ghosts of our land
ascending to their places
atop Mount Pisgah

the day turns summery
heat lingers into evening—
too warm for a fire
we watch the snowy tv
next morning Ed and I
tote the unused logs
back to the woodpile

buzz of electric drill begins
the closing-up ritual
I hold the shutters straight
a task always given to our neighbor
but failing health keeps Hector home




I slide into Ed’s place
he takes over Hector’s chores
moving up the pitch of roof
goat footed and agile
despite his years

I climb the shaky wooden ladder
carry boards to cover upstairs windows
he drains the water heater
I shutoff the pump
we each grab one end of the canoe
wrestle it onto the porch
I keep mental notes of both our tasks
and wonder why


 


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