Clippers and folding saw my only tools, I cut
the trail to my future writing cabin, past pines,
birch, beech, maple, moosewood, baby hemlocks.
I let it wind it's way through woods, over mossy
stumps, no straight lines, pick my way
so the fewest trees have to be taken out.
I apologize to each as I snip or saw them,
toss aside in piles that might shelter
a small bird, eventually rot away,
become the rich humus of this forest floor.
Early April warm, though there is still
ice on the lake. Sun strong enough
that I fear sunburn, yet relish it's heat
on my skin. I lay back, soak it up, listen
to the stream below tumbling over rocks
into the pool below. White noise, the best kind,
water. A raven calls as it flies down
the valley. I smile. As I sit up, I feel something poke
at my heart, reach down and pull a small twig,
picked up from some branch, from between my breasts.
Damp with my sweat, it falls among the leaves,
infused with my salt. I am now part of this land.
Today was spent working on our land. It was close to 80 degrees and I worked in a tank top. My husband was down the hill with his chainsaw, bucking up logs that had been taken down last year when our driveway was put in. That's all we have – a driveway. But hopefully I'll be building a tiny cabin this summer – my writing retreat. Only 9' X 12', it will have a desk and chair, a teensy pot-bellied stove, some sort of sleeping-upon thing (maybe one of those futon sofas that pull out), a rocking chair. A porch to sit on. I've never had a place that is all my own. This will be. And I'm building it myself (with some help, yeah, but still...).