A poem about the Yukon
I know what it's like not to have a home. To me the word is sacred. Whether it's mansion, a hovel, or a stack of sticks on a mountaintop in the Yukon it is a sacred place where your heart will always live. PJ Yukon
home
she’ll grab you by the heartstrings
and never let you go
she’s a haven for your heartbeat
and a heaven made of snow
she’s a harbor where the midnight sun
never lets you down
and the blazing bright aurora
nails you to the ground
where the beaver slaps his happy tail
by the shores of an alpine lake
and the river runs right through ya
where the salmon clear the gate
where the moose calls out in the wilderness
to lure himself a mate
and the air is clear and the water here
is more than worth the wait
where you can walk across forever
and never see another soul
where the trails the moss and the tundra
ever beckon you to go
where the raven’s laugh and the grizzly’s roar
in the land of the midnight sun
will always leave you craving more
when a northern day is done
some call her a barren wasteland
some say she’s a nowhere land
where it’s 50 below and the ice and the snow
are unfit for the fittest man
some say she’s an empty horizon
she’s really no big deal
yet the gleam and the glow of the natural world
clearly say that the magic is real
some call her a wonder
some call her a drain
some wander and wonder
and wander again
but she’ll get in your blood
like a verse of this poem
some call her the yukon
but i call her home
©PJ Yukon 2024
*This poem was made in The Yukon and so was I. 
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