A little red cabin in the woods, with wide plank paneling that has life in it still because it had life in it once.
The cracks of light around the door (nevermind it won’t block the cold). The sweet, open windows with their small white frames.
There’s hope there, and possibility. Work, but good work, worthy of my time. There’s open ground in full sun asking for a turning of earth, a slicing open of sod: I can see my grandmother’s plants there already. I can see Carl Larsson prints coming to life on the cozy wood walls.
Hope and home and dreams, and no one saying, “Now, hold on just a minute– be reasonable!”– least of all, myself.