Peterson’s Wilderness Cabin Poem by Joyce Chelmo

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.