Food cooking on the stove,
smells so good to me.
I sit there and wonder...
just what it could be?
The windows have no screens,
and they're open wide.
We can hear the night sounds
calling from outside.

And deep within this forest
I sit and dream today, about tomorrow,
when I go out to watch
the woodland creatures play.

Pots made of iron hang
from black and old worn hooks.
On a shelf above my bed,
are many well used books.
As I look back I can see
a rag rug on the floor.
I also see leather latches,
holding on the door.

The rocks that make our fireplace,
were carried from the creek.
Fire from its embers
gently warms my cheek.
A banjo hanging on the wall,
my daddy sits and plays
with his work worn hands,
at the end of his hard days.

Corn lays in a basket,
golden on its cob.
Shucking it is dreamy,
a most pleasant job.
I looked forward to the hominy
that golden corn would make,
And brown crispy bread
the wood stove oven would bake.

Onions from the garden
lay on an old tin plate,
Waiting for our supper,
when dad came through the gate.
A quilt was in the corner
tacked lightly to its frame,
The pattern mom was making...
I didn't know its name.

A rocker made from birch wood,
sat proudly on the floor.
A cedar lampstand sat near it,
close to the front door.
In the farthest corner of the cabin
stood the worn homemade broom.
Laughter was a common thing,
it filled the cabin's only room.

When I grew up and left there,
it came with me it seems.
This little place in the forest,
and the cabin full of dreams.
I often think of times I had,
when I was a child back then,
But to tell all that I felt and saw
would never have an end.

So I just pick bits and pieces
and think of how it used to be...
when I could sit and watch
and learn, and let my mind run free.

Norma Marek - ©2000