There is a cabin that doesn’t exist,
and hides in a wilderness of pine.
I count the moss covered stairs that I climb
to escape there—ten steps into the mist.
So many times I’ve opened its door
to peace, to be alone with my breath
and try to get over my fears of death—
hypnotized by a fireside roar.
But now in my meditation, two taps—
and there is Fear itself, unbidden,
and in my sanctum (I thought I was hidden),
and seeps in, breathing a frigid draft.
It leans close, whispers, “You didn’t ask me
to follow you here, but you’re never alone.
We’re married, remember? I go where you go,
trust me,” it vows. “Your thoughts are my home.”
