We call it the cabin this home of ours
Tucked in between the lake and a snaking
Half mile driveway we call a road
Lined with wild berries early August
Slushed with snow mid March
It leads to the road
A road leads to the road
Things that make no sense
Let us braid ourselves to a place
As if it ever was ours to begin with
This cabin unmortgaged untethered
Undecorated unless you count the Bernard
Looming over the fireplace
Or the massive glass of lemonade
Looming like a Warhol over our dreams
Or the echoes of summers falling
One by one into the lake
It never belonged to us
The cabin the candles the yellow blue
Flames jumping rope over propane teasing
Their feet Nothing here belongs to us
The deer in endless pilgrimage
Pause to stare into the windows
I raise one hand to the cool morning glass
I wonder what they’re thinking
When they’ll ask us to leave

Selected byRaymond Huffman
Image credit:Lubos Houska

Julie Desmond (she/hers) is a career coach with a thing for Irish writing, living in the heart of Minneapolis, MN. Find her books online and her poetry at Open Arts Forum, Lower Stumpf Lake Review, Diotima, Down in the Dirt, Classical Poetry Society, and at postsecret.com.