The Cabin

It isn’t much
As cabins go,
In the shadows
of the pines…
Seedlings when the cabin
Was laid long years ago,
Much longer, it seems,
By immigrant hands
prompted by a dream…
The chinking has fallen
From between the logs,
The tarpaper on the lath
is paper thin
And the plumbing
is without
Rather than within…
That is if you can find it
In a winter’s wrath,
And, if you do,
You will find it is not plumbing at all
But just the remnants
Of an outhouse wall.
So, as fancy goes,
There’s not much to say
Except
That as the pines from saplings grew,
The cabin
Passed from a dream,
To new,
To old,
To a relic of times long past
And a reminder of
An immigrant’s dream…
A monument
In our hearts as long as memories last.