CABIN LETTERS

There's a shoebox on the shelf above the stove

Forty-one letters and not a one I sent

Your name in my handwriting on the front of every envelope

And a stamp I never spent

Juniper's asleep against the door

She still looks up the road around four

So I write you cabin letters

Tell you how the creek came up in spring

Cabin letters

Tell you every little thing

How the gravel sounds when nobody's coming

How the quiet learned your name

I write you cabin letters

And I burn one when it rains

The Blue Ridge turned to copper overnight

I split a cord of oak and thought of you

You'd say I stack it crooked, and you'd probably be right

Some things I still can't do

I fixed the step you always said would break

It broke the week you left, make no mistake

So I write you cabin letters

Tell you how the creek came up in spring

Cabin letters

Tell you every little thing

How the gravel sounds when nobody's coming

How the quiet learned your name

I write you cabin letters

And I burn one when it rains

Number forty-two is on the table

It just says "the dog is fine, and so am I"

That's the first one that was true

Might be the first one I can mail

So I write you cabin letters

Tell you how the creek came up in spring

Cabin letters

I don't need you answering

I just needed somewhere I could set it down

I write you cabin letters