Six Notebooks of Summer

Like Thoreau I sought out Walden’s Pond For me, it was my grandmother’s field of soybeans Lost in the bowels of a small gray shed I fancied a cabin I stumbled on it when I was eight, an explorer, in the summer. It became mine almost immediately, and I dragged in pillows. If it had been closer to the house I might have brought a chair, But it was not in the back forty, it was in the back two hundred. So I brought a pillow, a notebook, pencils, and my lunch. You should have taken a clock, Grandma later told me. Many times, for I was late for supper every single evening. So caught up in writing about the frogs, bogs, hogs, and other wonders I found on my grandparent’s farm. I have six notebooks full of that summer. When I was nine, my mother signed me up for soccer, But I never forgot the summer I was eight and how much like Thoreau I was. I loved every single second in that gray “cabin”, my personal sanctuary Where I splayed myself over a pillow and simply wrote my heart out.