Limp grey fox shawl,

Mothballs, glossy hatboxes,

Tossed on musty attic floor,

Cover the sun burnt wicker.

 

Jake lifts her gently,

Sets her on hickory workbench,

Wipes off fine attic dust,

Quietly talks to her.

 

She held all a man needed,

Thick red wool socks,

Brown knit deer sweater,

Quart of tomato beef stew.

 

Cold November, mid ‘50’s –

Jake, chilled and beaten,

Set her by campfire. Weary eyes,

Moist, saw her charred wicker.

 

April, 1958, he was old then,

A slick rock edge betrayed,

Stone bit man, pack—and wounded,

Her side, now feathered and torn.

 

Brown and frail, inside,

Woven into aged basket,

Autumn leaves remind him –

Forest trails that whispered.

 

Jake inhales longingly. He is there now,

Evergreens, morning rain,

Fiddleheads and cinnamon ferns,

Wood sorrel, evening campfire.