Day Seven – NaPoWriMo 2017 – A Fortuitous Poem


Fear of Storms

It was supposed to be a canoe trip but the chance of storms made caution prevail
Without storms we got even wetter, walking through waist high fields of wet grass
Until our shoes were soaked through and even our inner layers were damp
I wish we had canoed instead.

To my 11-year old son who woke early that day excited for a canoe trip
Walking through wet grass with Mom and her friends from work was not fun
Especially without the promised canoe adventure to look back on and
Only a three-hour car ride in wet clothes to look forward to.

A three-hour car trip to finish the unhappy task of helping my mother
Empty my grandmother’s house, on this mid-May day
that promised adventure but brought only cold, damp misery
Dreary gray clouds and drizzle.

Nana, who taught me all I ever knew of unconditional love, of being kind, of cooking
Bacon and eggs and hot biscuits, gardening and getting my hands dirty
Nana, now two months gone – who lived a long life
but not long enough.

img040 (2)
Nana with my daughter at age 6 weeks

To lift the gloomy spirits of my back-seat passenger, I planned an adventure
We wouldn’t drive the normal route, we’d take the back roads
We’d explore campgrounds we could visit when summer came
We’d discover a new river for our next canoe adventure.

It brightened our moods for a while but the gray dreary day
and constant drizzle wore us down. And I was lost, without a map, again.
Ahead in the road in the middle of nowhere – something white – I slowed
The ‘something white’ moved – PUPPIES! – three puppies hurried into the woods.

I had to stop of course – we were in the middle of nowhere
It could only mean one thing – damp, cold puppies in the middle of a country road.
Cautiously they ventured out of the woods, as we called – “puppies, here puppies”
Led by a rolly-poly ball of wet fur and trusting brown eyes.

My back seat passenger now had three companions, and what 11-year old boy
In wet cloths doesn’t want to share a one-hour ride with three even wetter puppies
Covered in fleas, and ticks and love – or at least gratitude.
On the way to Nana’s empty house for the last time.

The fluffy ball of fur got a name – Samson
For the next twelve years he continued Nana’s lessons in unconditional love
Ever grateful for that rainy gray day in May
when fear of storms cancelled a canoe trip.


Samson at four months





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