March is a fickle month,
one day she teases us with spring,
the next we’re in a blizzard.
Those little glimpses of Spring
make me long for the North woods
where I was raised.
Reminding me of ways we spent
our summers.
Three Peterson girls
and me and my little sister.
Five sprightly girls
trekked a ragged path
to a secluded tumble-down cabin
on the edge of Boundary Waters.
No electricity or indoor plumbing;
dined by kerosene lantern
on fried spam and toasted marshmallows.
Water pumped by hand
in a galvanized pail.
Entertained by
skinny dipping as the sun set,
chasing fireflies by moonlight,
and ghost stories with flashlights
under musty quilts.
Come morning I would be found alone....
Seated on the end of the gray-wood dock,
with dew wet canvas shoes,
watching a tangerine sunrise,
listening to the first haunting loon call.
Joyce Chelmo
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/peterson-s-wilderness-cabin/
