All Escape Is Temporary
Snow-clad slope, small clearing in the spruces,
green needles, grizzled white, frame this cabin
on a pitch skiers would salivate for,
the view reminiscent of Bierstadt.
Five mile walk to where I parked my truck,
take the snowmobile down but once a week
to get supplies, I’m no survivalist,
but can’t survive all year in the city.
Can’t just keep looking at screen upon screen,
I swear I see the blue glow in my sleep;
sick of news racing too fast to keep track,
an of being just a phone-tap away.
My job doesn’t need me in the winters,
four months I spend as a hermit out here,
no power, just fire, a handful of books,
and no damn internet to blur my thoughts.
Rocky Mountains rising out of my window,
snow piling up on a steep-pitched roof,
the rare furry-critter flitting on by,
windsong moaning mournfully in darkness…
No sign of the world save for jet contrails,
the surrounding silence you just don’t find
managing a big chain of summer resorts.
It feels harder to go back every spring.
But the house, the cabin, and the snowmobile,
the truck and the food; they all cost money.
and they won’t let people hunt to survive,
or chop down wild trees anymore.
It seems all escape is temporary,
and the world will not tolerate hermits,
Ttat much freedom is frightening to them…
How many years until I can retire?
Copyright © David Welch | Year Posted 2019
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