The Cabin

by Johnny Packer

Chapter 1

The nighttime grew louder, the stars were dim.
Pine needles needled the edge of my mind.
I walked through a corridor where pines were grim,
as if they knew what I lost is what I’ve left behind.

The weight of the branches felt heavy and clear–
a perfect reflection of years ago.
The very same woods where she’d disappear,
with trails swallowed whole by a void I know.

I used to come back to this fateful line,
and searched for her presence through depth and height
begging the darkness for some kind of sign,
chasing a ghost in every fleeting night.

Unlike before, where the thickets divide,
a cabin stood sharp in the shadows and frost;
its glass was asleep on the dead-end side,
built out of timber from everything lost.

And through the pane, in a flickering glow,
her silhouette waited, unmoving and thin.
But the dream faded away  as I started to go,
and I awoke in my bed with the pines in my skin.