Light rain pitters on the canopy over the picnic tables,
the fire pit lacks a Jenga-tower of wood, forms the nucleus
of empty log benches. The smoke ban prevents bonfires
and smores, the delta variant keeps families
to themselves, there will be no rousing rounds sung,
no trail-sighting tales yarned. The air is heavy, scented damp,
the pines stand un-rustled at the edge of the meadow, actors
in tableau, holding steady the scene: vacationing families,
this summer wearing shorts and masks.
There is something we seek when we return year after year
to a place that memorializes joy and anguish. To shift
the balance, lay new-found peace atop isolation, acceptance
over disillusionment. I am alone with the cascade of prior years,
the sole preparer of snacks for the hike to Goat Falls, the one
who will teach my once-small child to drive mountain roads.
I think of sending a message, but cannot imagine to whom. It is I
who see myself more clearly when words form themselves
on the page, lyrics sing themselves to simple rhythms. Mama Ptarmigan
and The Bear are for firepits and smores, a late night sip of wine
after weary children crumple into the mythic sleep of the wide-eyed,
not for this strange new era, post-pandemic, post-forest fires,
post-small children, a family of adults, minus the one
whose sorrow tumbled down the mountainside, uprooting
new growth, crashing into the glacial White River, carrying him away
as we sang about a friendly bear.
this is really powerful.