The weeds are knee high down the hill
to the place where I plan to write.
It’s under the oak,
with a midday splash of sun
and a view to the valley.
I’ll put in a wood stove
for the rain and the cold.
Buy a desk and with pen in hand
watch the gray tailed squirrel
as it nimble foots up the oak.
It’s taken a lifetime to get here
and never a straight line,
but as I rest against the mower
and look back through these high green weeds,
it’s a lovely swathe I’ve cut
to the door of the place I want to go.