I wrote this piece some 20-30 years ago but lost it. It used to be in
some sort of pentameter rhythm but, afraid I lost that too. I've just
never been able to recover it - wherever I hid it away. This is as close
to the original as I can get.
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It would be toward the end of summer, just before Fall when the leave began to drop, when my visitors came through the wood to have a time with me, as there were no roads leading to my place.
They would stand at the porch step and call out, then step up onto the porch boards and knock at the door; although by then, they could plainly see me through the open doorway, sitting on the backporch enjoying my drink and smoke.
"Oh, hello!" They call out. "How are you doing? Mr. Mann, you asleep? We haven't seen you in town in a while?"
"What can I do for you, gentlemen" as we talked through the open doorways?
"Oh, nothing," they repeat. "We just thought we'd be neighborly and check in on you. You been doing alright through this long hot summer," they ask again, rephrasing the question?
"Yep, making it. 'Bout like everyone, I reckon" I called back.
"Mind if we come in," they ask?"
"The screen-door's latched from the inside 'cause of the racoons who know how to open the door," I respond. You can walk around the side of the house and sit on the steps if you want. I ain't got but one chair here on the backporch and I'm in it and the dog's takin up most of the space on the floor."
As they come around the side of cabin, "Evening, Mr. Mann."
"What is do you want, fine sirs?"
"Well, like we said, we just wanted to check up on you - to see if you was doing alright. It's been awfully hot of late! And, like we told you the last time we talked," if you were a-mind to selling this place, we might be interested in helping you out," one of them says.
"I'm not," I hand them back. 'I'm happy here."
"You're all by yourself, Mr. Mann. It's dangerous to be so far away from others," they reply, "to live so far away in the woods by yourself."
"I'm not alone," I tell them, "As for friends, I've got plenty o friends - trees, birds, forest animals. And for home, well, home is where you make it, ain't it?"
"But it is not good for you to be so much alone," they insist. "And you'd do well to have yourself a real home. Some of the people in town even say that you've become slow of thought now. Dementia is what they call it."
For a few moments my friends are quiet. Each one pretending to knock the dust off his shoes. "All you have is weeds and trees," they continue.
"That's true, I suppose." But I don't reckon that I'm not going to change none anytime soon."
But I should not want them to quit their coming but now must bid my visitors be gone for they have broken my solace. "I thank you for coming all this way through the wood to see me," I tell them. "You come back again. As you say, I'm all alone. The one you seek is not here right now. I'm only the keeper of the forest, the owner is not at home."
---------------------------
It would be toward the end of summer, just before Fall when the leave began to drop, when my visitors came through the wood to have a time with me, as there were no roads leading to my place.
They would stand at the porch step and call out, then step up onto the porch boards and knock at the door; although by then, they could plainly see me through the open doorway, sitting on the backporch enjoying my drink and smoke.
"Oh, hello!" They call out. "How are you doing? Mr. Mann, you asleep? We haven't seen you in town in a while?"
"What can I do for you, gentlemen" as we talked through the open doorways?
"Oh, nothing," they repeat. "We just thought we'd be neighborly and check in on you. You been doing alright through this long hot summer," they ask again, rephrasing the question?
"Yep, making it. 'Bout like everyone, I reckon" I called back.
"Mind if we come in," they ask?"
"The screen-door's latched from the inside 'cause of the racoons who know how to open the door," I respond. You can walk around the side of the house and sit on the steps if you want. I ain't got but one chair here on the backporch and I'm in it and the dog's takin up most of the space on the floor."
As they come around the side of cabin, "Evening, Mr. Mann."
"What is do you want, fine sirs?"
"Well, like we said, we just wanted to check up on you - to see if you was doing alright. It's been awfully hot of late! And, like we told you the last time we talked," if you were a-mind to selling this place, we might be interested in helping you out," one of them says.
"I'm not," I hand them back. 'I'm happy here."
"You're all by yourself, Mr. Mann. It's dangerous to be so far away from others," they reply, "to live so far away in the woods by yourself."
"I'm not alone," I tell them, "As for friends, I've got plenty o friends - trees, birds, forest animals. And for home, well, home is where you make it, ain't it?"
"But it is not good for you to be so much alone," they insist. "And you'd do well to have yourself a real home. Some of the people in town even say that you've become slow of thought now. Dementia is what they call it."
For a few moments my friends are quiet. Each one pretending to knock the dust off his shoes. "All you have is weeds and trees," they continue.
"That's true, I suppose." But I don't reckon that I'm not going to change none anytime soon."
But I should not want them to quit their coming but now must bid my visitors be gone for they have broken my solace. "I thank you for coming all this way through the wood to see me," I tell them. "You come back again. As you say, I'm all alone. The one you seek is not here right now. I'm only the keeper of the forest, the owner is not at home."
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