when it's easy to believe

i've got food on my back and mud on my feet and we're walking our way into forest into cabin and it's spring




and the robins are singing, you know the way they sing? like the world is a cathedral, and they, the only choir, and we're walking





lined up old chevrolets rusting and tired wheeled and aiden's hand is small in his daddy's and his red rubber boots splash wet and i'll dry them by the fire when we get to the cabin, a place you only get to by trail





and we'll sit in white chairs and eat smokies and puffed wheat squares and great-grandma and opa in their hats all bundled and aiden learning family as smoke climbs the sky





the last of the snow melts soft, grass straggles yellow and the world becomes a nest for life, winged hope and all that emily dickinson wrote of in this hallowed heart of the wood



(may you find faith in the breath outside your door, dear friends... holy weekending...)