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.
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