I am so far away from you now, so far South,
Wondering how heavily laden your boughs are,
Wondering how your myriad of trout and bass swim
Under the thick lake ice, dotted with ice-fishermen.
No, I’m not with you in the harshness of winter,
But I am with you always, in my spirit.
I imagine the Currier and Ives quaintness of Inlet,
Of Old Forge’s magical hardware emporium,
I see hardy families sitting down, together, to the steaming food
That sustains them throughout bitter days and nights.
I see flickering, amber light, dancing from every frosted window,
As piquant scents of gray wood-smoke curl bravely
From weathered, creosote-tarred chimneys.
I see the deep ‘crow’s-foot’ crosshatching of snowmobile tracks,
Etched on streets, dirt paths and two-lane roads that blend together
And then, at last, I hear the slow, sonorous breath of the deep woods,
Sleeping beneath nature’s coverlet of pristine, eider-down.
All this, all this, and so much more,
Is in my winter dreams of you, little Camp of my heart.