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