Archive
09/20/10 - (4)
Quest
Once I'm inside the desolate camp's back gate, Away from the flailing waves assailing the border of the shore, The winds off the riled-up lake subside Or, if not, are consumed by trees protecting the grounds, Which drown out the roar, in their massive crowns.
Having walked at a determined pace, East, from the cabin, on Waterfront Drive, I sense that my flannel shirt, fleece jacket, and blue-jean coat Provide at least one too many layers than is now required. Happily, I'm perspiring; body heat sure beats freezing.
My feet respond immediately to the transition From street macadam, strewn with large stones, To the few dirt roads, used by the camp's maintenance crew, And to the sandy, rooted paths, cushiony to my soles, With newly fallen yellow-brown pine needles covering the humus.
To be in this secluded purlieus, conversant with my old soul, Is to know, with perfect certainty, the now-grown boy Who, a long, long six decades ago, first opened his duffel bag And dumped its contents onto a musty bunk bed in Swamper Four. How privileged I feel, to have traveled to this moment,
Just to appreciate the changelessness of this unaging place Tranquil amidst the furious world surrounding it, Reassure myself that, in the space left to my inscrutable future, I'll never forget where my quest's first steps caught their stride, On their circuitous route toward what I've yet to find.
09/20/10 - (4)
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