Deep within a mountain forest, sat a cabin full of dreams.
Playing by a fire place, while mommy sewed her seams.
A baby in the cradle, and me singing lullabies.
I soothe the baby's soft and seeming plaintive cries.

Food cooking on the stove, smells so good to me.
I sit there and wonder,...just what it could be?
The windows have no screens, and they're open wide.
We can hear the night sounds calling from outside.

And deep within this forest I sit and dream today,
about tomorrow, when I go out
to watch the woodland creatures play.

Pots made of iron, hang from black and old worn hooks.
On a shelf above my bed, are many well used books.
As I look back I can see a rag rug on the floor.
I also see leather latches, holding on the door.

The rocks that make our fireplace, were carried from
the creek. Fire from it's embers gently warms my cheek.
A banjo hanging on the wall, my daddy sits and plays
with his work worn hands, at the end of his hard days.

Corn lays in a basket, golden on it's cob
Shucking it is dreamy, a most pleasant job.
I looked forward to the hominy that golden corn would make,
and brown crispy bread the wood stove oven would bake.

Onions from the garden lay on an old tin plate,
Waiting for our supper, when dad came through the gate.
A quilt was in the corner tacked tightly to it's frame,
The pattern mom was making,.. I didn't know it's name.

A rocker made from birch wood, sat proudly on the floor.
A cedar lamp stand sat near it, close to the front door.
In the farthest corner of the cabin stood the worn homemade broom.
Laughter was a common thing, it filled the cabin's only room.

When I grew up and left there, it came with me it seems.
That little place in the forest, and the cabin full of dreams.
I often think of times I had, when I was a child back then,
But to tell all that I felt and saw would never have an end.

So I just pick bits and pieces and think of how
it used to be...when I could sit, and watch
and learn, and let my mind run free.

© Norma Marek ~ 2000

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