Cabin

It is the difference between

The stale, settled smell of the vacation cabin

Of the inanimate, waiting

The hanging china answering with a gentle clatter

To the tremble of homecoming,

We are also just here, until someone moves us, too.

Like the ratty throw, exactly where it was last winter

We are doors, meant to be knocked at

And homes to be lived in.

Our life’s work is loving. Inside our vocation cabin

It is the difference between lifeless and

That ghost of a scent of habitation:

The heart that goes to bed

With a small fire burning.