Poetry: cabin
sometime early last century, a man,
before wife and family arrived, having survived
war, bought
land.
unimpressively, a humble cabin
stood on 8 acres off a dirt county road, amidst
aspen and conifer, sage and
shale, ptarmigan and elk, moose and
red-tail hawk.
it was on the upper hem
of a valley sliced
open by a willow-lined creek draining
southward from the continental
divide, to the Colorado
river.
neighbors were few, sturdy, friendly, unassuming,
helping folk. though he was a visitor, the man
fit right in, and prepared a place
for generations to
follow.
he is gone now,
no more to
grace this place, laying fires, fixing
fence posts and water lines, setting
traps, and stocking
nuts and soda for arriving
kin.
yet he will always be here, quietly showing
us how to live, neighborly,
never-saying-no, ‘glad to do it!’ rings out in
memory, prepared and protecting,
ready and resting, loving and
laughing.
sometime early last century, a man,
before wife and family arrived, having survived
war, bought
land…
__________________
remembering William I. ‘granddad’ Jeffs, 1918-February 2001
who passed as quietly and resolutely as he lived among us;
father of my wife Anne Jeffs Harrison, 1959-April 2001;
written by Patrick R Harrison at Granby cabin, March 2001
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