Log Cabin

The Talk­ing Stick: Insights
Sep­tem­ber 2020

At dusk the cabin’s fire warms us

as coy­otes howl, phon­ics of the wild,

the pack singing to the whitened night.


The full moon wash­es our log walls,

trees that gave their back to my husband’s adze,

their white flesh glis­ten­ing with sap like sweat


in the sum­mer sun, bal­anced one on another,

pinned with eighty-pen­ny nails, walls that have

curbed and con­tained our wanderlust.


Inside these walls we have lain

three dolls, asleep in a row in the loft.

Only we are not play­ing at this.


They are break­able, these young ones.

Their breaths play a sym­pho­ny of syncopation,

each mark­ing a beat that says I live.

Log Cabin