Cabin in the Woods

Cabin resting silently
but who resides within?
Paint was recently applied
but that's the only flint.

I've been coming to this rock to sit
for thirty-three odd years.
But I've never caught a glimpse of
someone puttering to clear

a passage for a dock, a trail,
a yard to plant a garden.
No barbecue or wood canoe
or hammock stretched out, spartan.

I'd like to look across this lake
and see a light inside.
Or while I'm trolling past its shore
detect coy cheeky chides.

The cabin always seems deserted,
distant, detached, claimed.
One that I would fail to note
if it wasn't for its name

less enigmatic presence,
relaxed and unconcerned.
Stoic in its vacancy,
alluringly preserved.

Rarely emanating difference
while transmitting instincts, questions.
Withstanding storms, heat, hail and ice,
reserved distinct discretions.

Deep within the forest resting,
forgotten seasoned strains.
No regrets or plain contexts
to find its youth again.

But when I sit upon this rock
or go on trolling by,
its mystery sans history
helps reanimate mine.

Not that I'm overly concerned
with reconstituted feelings.
But when they do return the joy
reveals itself retreating.

But still I'd like to someday see
activity within.
Movement, startling stylized states,
transformative friction.

For youth does not have to exist
in a determined space of time.
But is consistently reborn
as lifelong learning shines.

A lock, a cue, an hydraulic fuse,
a tranquil mnemonic site.
Ontological atemperance,
motionless in flight.