This was written for dVerse where we are to use “shed,” in whatever definition you choose, in a poem.
Old Green Sheep Shed
My beloved forest green cabin
began life as a sheep shed.
Nestled in between two sloped-shouldered
Appalachian hills, a stream gurgling on the west,
a child’s version of nirvana.
Forget that it had three rooms.
Forget that there was no tv.
Forget that the only radio played old time C&W.
I spent hours alone, discovering natural paradise.
The creeks entranced me. Lift a stone
discover an aqua-colored crayfish. Striped minnows darted.
A snapping turtle moved with astonishing swiftness.
Snakes, snakes, snakes undulated.
At night for many years I listened to whippoorwills
until one year I never heard them again,
or ever since.
Happiness was in rising each day
avoiding sweat bees,
savoring Mrs. Hoke’s homemade peach ice cream
icy with chunks of fresh peaches
and coconut cookies,
eating corn on the cob picked fresh from the garden
sweet juicy kernels erupting oozing creamy butter.
Bundled on July 4th, while store-bought fireworks dazzled,
always the best I’ve ever seen.
Falling asleep at night
with the radio on,
Loretta Lynn singing about divorce
or the terrifying sounds of the theme
to “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly”
its strange whistles and thumping, voices chanting
frightening to a child, the only one awake, in the nighttime.
Waking to thunder, lightning illuminating
mullein on the hillside, marching sentries.
Every summer equated happiness
until Daddy’s death
when life changed.