Nine years too long and stale have gone since I
Last pranced and ran upon these sparkling hills,
With my spirit as wild and tender
As the fiddleheads that sprout by the creek.
A fond and hazy dream of summers past,
These memories have become, yet still filled
With all the cluttered and confused joy of
A child whose teeth and bones and soul are
Not full-grown. There stands an oak that shadows
The barn where the children were taught how not
To cut their fingers while working wood, and
When they must take their pots from the kiln, and
How they ought to tie the ends of their yarn
So that the wind does not unravel their
Fragile hand-made hats. These lessons I will
Forever carry with me, whether I
Ever finish kitting my sweater or
Take a hammer to white-hot steel again.
Eighty degrees, hair hot on my neck, but
Never have I felt so alive. Perhaps
My summertime boys have not forgotten
The tricks we played and the hay bales we wrecked,
And maybe they remember me back when
I was a sun-burnt boy, as well. The faint
Unattainable glimpse of childhood
That made itself visible every year
For a week has faded by now from sight.
Though still I am a youth, the time has come
For me to set aside the boyhood that
I almost attained in that idyllic And unruly camp. But of course the short
Yet lengthy dreams of innocence long gone
Still haunt my waking life, as though the ghost
Of childhood past seeks to spark some bright
And new and good flicker within my heart
To burn away my longing to return.