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Poem

When I was young

We wouldn’t even build the July campfire light
Beside Torch Lake until ten at night
Taking a cue from Led Zeppelin and the sun
That, like us, refused to let go of the solstice sky

We’d go until four in the morning

And by then
The other hand of the sun
Was but a note away on the cosmic clock
Over the hill not far away

The knee-high flames contained within our circle of rocks

Surrounded by the outer bow and glow of our faces
This tribe of brothers sisters and spouses
Shouldered and bending in lawn chairs

Just as now
A third ring formed by our offspring

Sometimes we’re allowed in
Sometimes we’re no longer needed by them
Or wanted

It’s ok
The bonds of blood are layered in years
Like the cycles marked inside a tree

Soon
The northern lights will unveil their green shroud
The nose of Capella pressed to that veil

A small herd of deer will come down from the woods
Their eyes red as embers
Stomping their hoofs

And after that
In the early morning
The last of the Monarchs.

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