I wrote this years ago, decades maybe. I posted it, but it seems to be gone. It's about a time in my life, I was ten or so, and away at summer camp for the first time. And, I suppose I'm a bit melancholy as the news of loss hits home. It's no longer abstract. 

On the other hand, cheer up, as the robins say: "cheer-up, cheerily." It's a beautiful day, the bees (bumble and honey) are buzzing furiously about the redbud trees, and the clouds and breeze foretell a change in the weather—warmer, colder? 

Strange as it is, I'm also thinking of lynn, marketa, colin, colin's grandfather, et al.,—what must it be like to exist only in a writer's imagination, yet have full and tender lives in their own right. 

Just wondering.

~

Vespers

We walked on Sunday mornings 

To a quiet place in the woods, 

All the campers sitting as if in church 

To hear the counselor most in tune with nature 

Talk of things which sounded nearly true. 

It was lovely to sit and contemplate 

The sounds and sights of nature 

While listening to words which were meant to uplift, 

All the while knowing 

We would be young so long as the sky was blue. 

It was a gesture of respect to be treated as thinking boys 

That might benefit from a solemn word. 

It was a gift to be lead to this secreted place, 

I better now understand its preciousness.