A Darting Fear
Unlike her husband, Diah, who was short,
broad-shouldered, stout, and strong enough to hoist
a barrelful of cider over the rave
of any cart; whose thunderous voice bespoke
the confidence of a successful farmer,
Rachel’s strength lay in her fortitude.
Angular, with waist-length auburn hair
and deep-set hazel eyes, this quiet woman
admirably kept house, but kept her peace
where Munson business matters were concerned.
Reserved but cheerful, Rachel baked the bread,
churned the butter, spun the flax and wool,
and filled the featherbeds. She cooked and cleaned,
preserved the pickled beets and damson plums,
made soap and tallow candles, all the while
caring for her children, who were born
like clockwork every second year or so.
That is, till little Walter came along
feet-first. The midwife almost lost them both,
and warned against another pregnancy.
At sundown on the chill October day
when Diah Munson left his family,
before she said her prayers and went to bed,
Rachel, with her homemade bristle brush,
wrested from one hundred gentle strokes
one hundred images of harbored fears.
The whole town knew what Dyer’s scouting team
and Uncle Eph had met with years ago
in frontier forests, where not only wolves
and panthers stalked their unsuspecting prey.
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