At Chris's float, in Clayoquot Sound
I guess it's too late to live in a cabin
in the wilderness,
hauling water from the creek,
chopping my own firewood,
watching the snow swirl down
as the woodstove crackles
and the candles sputter.
I guess it's too late to sing with the wolves
at midnight, or open the door
in the foggy morning,
at the base of a mountain,
to a silence deeper
than any quiet has ever been,
or walk a bushwhacked trail,
scalp prickling as you know
there is a cougar hiding somewhere near,
its eyes upon you.
But it's not too late to visit my friends, who do,
to sit on their floathouse platform
and bask in the beauty of God's own pocket,
the trees, the water, the creatures who live there
life in macro- and microcosm, thriving,
because those who live near know
they live on hallowed ground,
thus are respectful.
And it's never too late
to dream a wild woman's dream.
I dont usually sign up for NaPoWriMo, as I usually write almost daily anyway. But this year, since my Muse has been flagging, I am going to make myself do it, in an attempt to get the thoughts flowing again. And this prompt from the NaPoWriMo site, resonated with me. You begin with "I guess it's too late to" and go on from there. The above is my dream life. I just missed out on it by ten seconds. But I came darn close.