Poem of the Week 6/13/2017
Camping for One
This year, I’ll be alone with the crickets
under the rising moon of my misery.
I’ll mourn outside my empty tent,
pretending, as I did when I was single,
my silver flute is a steel-stringed guitar.
In my best Joan Baez,
I’ll croon cowboy songs and nursery rhymes
and tunes of sad and happy times.
In evening’s cicadas and midnight’s owls,
I’ll hear echoes of the past.
I’ll fear spiders and snakes.
Raccoons might take to rustling under my tent.
I’ll make peace with a hint of bears,
and enjoy the setting sun.
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