We owned a cabin once.
A small, one room
musty-smelling house
with fragrant wood heat-
and well water
that you had to pump
into a tin bucket.
But from the screened porch
you could see the forest.
And birds
and deer
and the seasons of the sky.
Sunny days
and thunderstorms
and snowflakes spinning.
We sat there one day
holding hands,
listening to the silence.
Years passed by
before our eyes.
And then we finally got up,
fixed bacon and eggs,
sold the cabin,
and grew old.
I wonder if the oak tree there
still stands against the wind...
If tiny ripe pears
poke out of blooming buds...
If the cherry trees grow
thick and heavy in July...
..If some part of us is still there
on that porch swing,
holding hands.
