Archive
05/19/09
The Axemen Village
This crisp, crystalline-blue Tuesday morning, Not a degree above fifty-two, I walk, at a brisk clip, from my lakeside retreat, Down the road, to the sandy back entrance of the boys' camp, Past its scatter of disassembled docks and gear, Its landlocked armada of sailboats, rowboats, canoes, And enter, all at once, a silent circumambience, Fitted, so seamlessly, amidst these massive pines, Within the confines of their sixty-seven shadow-crosshatched acres.
Suddenly, I find myself wandering through the Axemen Village, Its ramshackle white-clapboard cabins Taking notice of the visitor who, once upon a timeless while ago, Spent two happy months here, twice, when he was twelve and thirteen. Hands in my pocket, I stand transfixed, mesmerized, Casting back to summers packed away in memory's trunk and duffel, Before being awakened, from reverie, By tremolos of loons rising from the ancient lake, Reminding me I'm not here by myself
And that, in just about a month, these immutable premises Will fill up with the boisterous, joyous jubilations of youth. But for now, this hour, these sweet few seconds, I claim sole ownership Not of these trees, the cabins, this deep-scented quietude, But of my liberated spirit, my freedom to openly embrace nature, The peacefulness breathing me alive, Speaking, to me, a litany of vernal benedictions, Assuring me that what once was, and is, can and must unendingly be.
05/19/09
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