Archive
09/19/08 - (1)
The Boys, the Leaves, and Me
My walk through the woods enveloping Camp Nebagamon Is a blessing as well as a desolate undertaking. I've been craving partaking of these exquisite environs,
All the while knowing that, in doing so, I'd have to listen to the noise of invisible boys at play, Lingering in the silent-singing wilderness,
And not only contend with their haunting presence But confront my own, from so many years ago, When I spent fourteen summers here, discovering myself.
As I go, the leaves, many still green, In this near-autumn beginning of the winnowing, Myriad others assuming the dazzling dapplings of decay
(Sugar and red maples turning, in nature's kaleidoscope, From viridescence, through orange, to blazing regal crimson; Pin oaks taking on the same hues, less dramatically;
American basswoods yellowing mutedly, translucently; Staghorn sumacs donning scarlet shrouds; Balsams, spruces, pines — witnesses to the quiet dying)...
The leaves seem to be falling in line, behind me, Following my circuitous maneuverings through camp, Almost as though I were a nurturing counselor,
Leading them on their first hike through this sacred garden, Promising them that, come next spring, We'll be back where we started on this late afternoon.
09/19/08 - (1)
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