the sanctuary
the old man
raked the thick quilt
of maple and oak leaves, and pine needles
from trees he’d planted seventy years earlier
as a boy
in hopes of turning the yard
into a raccoon sanctuarythe raccoons
never came but the old man
raked away for most of october
preparing the yard for
another winter of hopewinter snows came hard that year
it made the old man smile to think
that beneath it all he’d prepared
the soil
to quickly absorb the snowmelt forcing
the trees
to bloom before all the othersthat spring
sitting on his porch
while watching the sun melt
the wind crystallizing the snow banks
the old man
remembered the first time
he watched spring bat down winter
and he smiled
because it was as good a memory
as the first time he thought itand then he died
while the old man’s
grandchildren argued over his estate
drove off with furniture and knickknacks
bickered with real estate developers
the yard
the maple and oak leaves and pine needles
produced their annual blanket
only to be neglected the entire winterno one sat on the porch in the spring
no one witnessed the snowmelt
repelled by a brown mulch jacket
water streaming down paths and sidewalks
into the streets
instead of the ground
no one noticed how
one by one
the trees all died that spring
until a windstorm knocked many of them
downthe arborists
hired to fell the lot
were unable to explain
how several dozen trees
vibrant and alive in the fall
had simply withered and died
so quicklynow
when the night air is cold and still
the neighborhood awakens to the commotion
of garbage cans strewn across
the old man’s
barren yard and the explanation
by police
of a sudden infestation of local
raccoons
On the corner of our block is a big, old, green house. We call it The Green House. A very old man lived there. He lived in the house until he died, just last year. On a block full of modest yards full of bushes and the occasional tree his was unusual in the dozens of maples, oaks, and pines he had planted there as a young boy. He’d always hoped to make it an urban sanctuary for raccoons.
The man is gone, the trees aren’t in very good shape, no one has seen any raccoons recently.
Poetry Friday Number Two for 2012! And a Friday the 13th at that! Tara over at A Teaching Life has the roundup this week, and I’ll bet there are at least 13 great posts there, if not more.
I live in hope that the raccoons come.
maybe the raccoons will show up after our town manages to deal with a trio of other problems we have right now: foxes, coyotes, and wild turkeys. of those, the turkeys are the most dangerous!
and, no, we don’t live in the ‘burbs.
That’s a very sad poem! I liked the irony at the end, though it’s bitter.
sad in retrospect, though i’d like to think there’s a story in there about holding fast to a dream no matter what.
Interesting poem, David. The sad part, to me, is not that the raccoons didn’t come, but that the old man’s family didn’t take care of his trees and probably didn’t really “get” him.
that’s just it. we never saw his kids until after he passed. he’d be out in that yard all the time, spending an entire month raking, and you could tell he was dedicated to that childhood dream he had. we’re all waiting to see if that lack of concern manifests in his magnificent old house being chopped up into condos.
Poignant poem, David, and a story well told – I love how, in the midst of lots of soft, lyrical lines, you put in
“he watched spring bat down winter” –
I can see/feel that! (Having a couple of feisty cats probably contributes to that resonance…;0) ) Thanks for sharing.
It is always these strange, sad, solitary shades of events that surround us – which inspire us the most, great fodder for our writing.
Similar to the comments posted above, I felt a sense of sorrow for the old man – and that sense of isolation that you have captured beautifully. :)
It’s like folk art in a sense – the Watts Towers were a similar “obsession” (though not reliant on critters coming in to make it fulfill its purpose). Nicely captured and quite poignant.
I really like the way you’ve captured this neighbor.
Oh, I like this old man so much. His tending, his care, his hope. This poem touched me, and I have a feeling I’ll see that old man in my mind when next I see a vacant lot or lonely house. Thank you, David. I love the “winter of hope” and your nature writing…. Guess we never know if some of our dreams come true after we are gone… a.
He reminds me of my dad, and of the big trees in our yard. After my mom passes, it’s unlikely that anyone will care for our yard and trees the way dad did and mom has. It might not turn out to be as sad a story as the one in your poem, but I’m sure it will be tinged with the same feeling of regret that comes when you have to pass a dream on to someone who will never believe in it and grow it the way you did…