Retreat

I sit on a large maple stump
with my Uncle Kelly
and watch his words bump
through the cold air
like they’re not in any hurry
to go anywhere
and maybe not certain
where they’re going.
He can’t handle the woods
without a dog any more
than he could handle it
without his Stormy Kromer hat
or Chevy pick up, he tells me.
He’s lived through nine dogs.

The wrinkles
on his face circumvolve
his eyes, his nose,
then dive into his beard.
Tree rings, I think.
I try to count them.
But they’re too busy working,
coaxing the words
from somewhere deep inside.

He says nine dogs is enough—no more.
The pain of loss doesn’t run away.
It lies around, feeds on more loss—
gets stronger, more aggressive.
It’s not age that’s driving him
out of the woods, he says.
It’s the attacks of that vicious void.
It’s not wise to throw it another dog.
He can barely survive the frenzied assaults
the ghosts of the first nine have bolstered.

He pats the stump we’re sitting on,
traces some of the rings
with his gloved index finger.
This baby went over
a hundred years, he says.
Brought tears to my eyes
when I had to put it down.

The words halt, begin to come, retreat.

I wait.

He doesn’t mention his wife or kids.

Trees are tough, he says.
Self-reliant. They don’t need
Kromers or pick ups or—dogs.
Some sequoias, redwoods
stick around for 3,000 years.

ISBN 1-59661-013-1
47 pages $9