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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
Music for rainy mornings and long drives. Folk songs written in a cabin no one can find.