My Cardboard Balcony

Through The Woods by Belinda Roddie In our little cabin, we prepare a small dinner over candles and warm hearths, and the fireplace catches our breath in its embers and ashes. In our little cabin, we sit cross-legged with hot tea and chilled feet, toes quivering but fingers heated against the knots and weaves and tangles of our fading summer souls. Because it is finally autumn for the giant who was forced to swallow fire and collect grains of smoke in his beard. It is finally cold enough for us to inhale without coughing, and if we're lucky, rain will paint its lips against dry, gray suburbia. Right now, however, in our little cabin, we are safe and sound among strangers, tucked away in wilderness by Gaia's thumb, radiating with cosmic dawn.

Luckily, as we were driving up the mountain, none of the hell stories told about the weather came into fruition. There was no heavy rain. There was no hailstorm. There was no blizzard or flurry or even one speck of snow. Sure, it was cold, but I enjoyed that. I enjoyed seeing my breath float in front of me like a new, ghostly friend. I enjoyed the look of the cabin we stayed at - like something out of a fairy tale, or a picture book from the 1800s.