A long dirt path with earth bettween my toes,           And wildflowers growing in rows.                               Intoxicated with the smell of pine,                              This hidden sanctuary is only mine.                           Listening to the flowing creek,                                     Living off the mountains plentiful peak.                   Lavender and healing hurbs all around,                     The birds songs are the only sound.                         An old wood porch with character to spare,              In my little log cabin, I don't have a care.                  My laundry hung from tree to tree,                            Finding comfort in my hot tin cup of herbal tea.     soak in my porcelain tub, at the brake of dawn,     Right out on my very own front lawn.                         Cininnmon bark boiling on a wood burning stove,   This is my home, on this cold Alaskan Cove.            Curled up in my antique rocking chair,                        With only a flannel blanket,                                           Skin exposed and bare.                                                Upstairs is a loft, with a Victorian brass bed,             This is were I rest my head.                                         Ceiling to floor, wall to wall,                                         Books overflowing shelfs, down the hall.                 My red canoe pulled to shore,                                     In this isolated paradise, I never lock my door.          Freash eggs from the chicken coop,                        Potato and smoked caribou  soup.                             Bannack fried golden brown,                                       Off the grid cooking is the talk of the town.             This is were I will happily stay,                                     In the Alaskan bush so far away,                                Till I'm a old bush women, wrinkly and grey.