My home is a cabin
on the edge of a current,
between the shore and the mountains,
guarded by tall, frightening trees
green with life and loving.

My home is a cabin
with steps leading up from
the barnacles bestrewed on the rocks
visited by small crabs with little claws
and my feet with little toes.

My home is a cabin
with a deck built of creaking wood
with crispy and wet flip flops,
grouped together in a sandy embrace,
whispering of fireworks and s’mores.

My home is a cabin
in the back of my mind
where only memories keep it lit,
the warm, orange light glowing beneath
the front door, always leading me back.

Poem by Poem by J. Grace

Screen Shot 2016-02-21 at 12.10.38 PM
A picture of the cabin my family would call home during the summer. It’s no longer ours; I have not been there for years.


Published by Jessica Buck

Librarian (MLIS). BA in English & Renaissance Studies from UCSB. Poet, coffee drinker, Austen reader, book lover, and total geek: Star Wars, Doctor Who, Firefly, Harry Potter, etc.

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