July 29 - August 5, 2002

For the Stewards of Wildacres

We didn't know, but we heard tell
There's a Spirit in this Place.

In the morning's early hours
And with half a moonlit highway
We turn winding up the mountain
Searching for a sign.

We hear the tires crunch gravel
As we head off of the highway
And our headlights catch the white wings
Of an owl who leads us onward
Past the stonewall and the flowers
To a light on in the window.

See the key and there's a message:
We are almost to the cabin -
"Swing left to cut hard right,
That'll take you to the driveway.
We'll see you in the morning.
Breakfast's at eight-thirty," Oh!
'We're happy that you're here.'

There's a Spirit in this Place.
You can feel it walking barefoot
On the cabin's hardwood floors.
And your hands caress the smooth bark
Of the handrail leading upward
To a bedroom loft and outward to
A tree-deck and the stars.

Open windows beckon
All the night sounds to your pillow,
"There are new kids in the cabin"
The katydids do say.
They sing full out, God bless 'em!
But you lie inside their concert
Feel your heartbeat match their rhythm
As you gently slip away.

In the morning as you ponder
How just one tree catches sunlight,
Your first visitor soon finds you
As he bumbles on his way.
And you just can't help but giggle
'Cause he's buzzing right beside you
Ands he hovers, like he's reading
All the squiggles that you've made.

Knowing Nature is the Healer
Somehow makes you feel protected
And you want to venture deeper
In the realm beyond the Spirit.
But you bide your time to listen
To the Muses of the Mountains:
Telling Truth is hard taskmastery:
Then again, it's awfully fun.

There's a Spirit in this Place.
You can see it in the faces
Of the Stewards of the Place
Who with seasoned hands and clear eyes
Pass you plate of love-baked foodstuffs,
The tastes which you remember
With surprise that you remember,
And you know they saw it coming
As they smile back in your eyes.

There's a Spirit in this Place.
And you come here with a purpose
That the leaves take up in laughter,
For they shimmer with the new tales
That you simply must discover
Like the bread crumbs in the forest
That will lead you safely home.

Like the candle on the table,
You're aflame with joyful passion.
And the Spirit dances 'round you
Shaping silence in the air.
As you set your pen to paper
Bubbling words from deep within you
Staring back in sheer amazement,
Words you never knew were there.

Must be magic in the Owl's Nest
Tucked back safely in the mountain,
Letting Spirit take you over
From your heartbeat to your hands.
And the symbols you decipher
As you write and paint and ponder,
Are the gifts that you will offer
To the mountains and the cabin
And the flowers and the breezes
And the Stewards of the land.

© Kim Crow Strouble, 2002