Thoreau had his cabin, but he could walk to town in twenty minutes

I live in the middle of Bumblefuck, as my daughter would say

I would have to walk twenty miles just to get close to town

And then where would I be: East Bumblefuck

No, I am thrown on my own resources on days like this

Cold and rainy, fall colors dulled by a lead sky and drizzle 

I am trapped and I feel it; oh, I give thanks 

That my cow-tending days are over, I can skip that unpleasantness

But I am restless and lost without fences to repair, dead trees to cut and split

Fields to mow, grass to seed, fertilizer to spread

I am not myself without chores

I could work in the shop, but it would be busy-work and it won't happen

It is grey and it is dreary and I have no resistance

To the ennui that comes on days like this

The thought of walking in the woods, cold rain dripping down my neck

Has no appeal, nor does much of anything

I will haul out Emerson or see what's up with otp, she has a life

Maybe I'll stare out the window at the maple tree

That longs to preen in the radiance of sunshine, resigned as I am

To be dull and tired, but without the dread of long, black nights to come