The Cabin
Out on the isle, called Beaver Isle,
Which lies in little Noggle Lake.
The logs were in a messy pile--
Those beavered logs. The roughest style
Of shelter, I proposed to make.
The clean white snow, blankets the ground,
The glowing orb, shines bright at noon,
The robins now are all around,
Other birds fill the air with sound,
Showing winter will be gone soon.
The lilacs fill the fragrant air
With sweet perfume. The noisy din
Of our feathered friends fills the air.
The spring weather now is quite fair,
And with the sweet and warm west wind,
The Quaking Aspen's leaves will shake,
The Hemlock's fragrance sweetly drifts,
The ferns, a swaying carpet make,
And out upon the clear blue lake,
A homemade raft it sets adrift.
In June, the Lady Slippers bloom,
The blueberries ripen then too.
In starry plains shines full the moon,
Swimming beaver dive with a boom,
Waiting for the gathering crew.
The cabin rose slowly at first,
When cutting lengths, no progress seen,
But then into the skyline burst,
To ward off weather when adverse,
Appeared that silver tin roof sheen.
This cabin still is unfinished,
But if this summer provides time,
I hope I can out there exist,
And make it the weather resist,
Then call, cabin and island--mine.
Keith G. Calkins
March 9, 1975, Senior English