His was a cabin
On Barker Hill
The view
Across the meadow
A haven
In the summertime
I loved to draw
Water from his well
The sweet taste natural
Just pure and cold
Evenings the kerosene lamps
Made shadows
On the wall
Dancing flames
Pranced across the wick
The different colors
Hypnotic
I would stare
At the pinpoints
Of light
In the semi-illuminate room
My cousins
Would sleep
On the feather bed
While I played grown up
Trying to understand
Adult conversations
Uncle Ed and my dad
Would talk old times
Sharing stories
Of their hijinks
With characters
I didn’t know
But both
Storytellers
Breathed life
In their corpses
Bringing them alive
For me
I would fight sleep
But eventually
It would take me
With the last
Of their talk
Slowly dripping
Into my ears
The smooth yarn
Dropping as gentle
As a feather
