Posted Tuesday, December 1st, 2009
I think about a writerís cabin
Deep inside the woods.
Is it shed or other sort
Of common, local good?
I go there when I want things;
I go there when Iím full;
I go there to pick up things
Among the lonely world.
I walk and walk and walk and walk
And see so much is there. A cabin in the woods!
For the writer and her care. Leaves are all around her; the moon
will certain rise. She smells that heat come off the piles and feels it warm her thighs.
Itís that weird heat that fall holds, its little slight of hand. Not the sandy sheen of summer,
but the dying of the land.
Comments [post a comment]
Posted by SALOME DAMON on Wednesday, December 2nd, 2009 at 2:43 AM
This poet succeeds in putting me in that same frame of mind, as if I were there, wrapped in the same thought, when I am in deep thinking mood. Thank you.
Posted by Beth Camp [ firstname.lastname@example.org
] on Wednesday, December 23rd, 2009 at 6:24 AM
The images in the beginning of the poem create a sense of solace and creativity, which centered me. Thank you.