I wrote this poem a few years ago in hopes of capturing images of quiet camping week-ends in the fall. It is my favorite time of year to be out camping. It is cooler, quieter, and so beautiful. Canyon Creek Campground
September Weekend
The sun bleached table sits
Under a towering tamarack
with the trickle of a creek footsteps away.
The familiar smell of smoke lingers from conversation last night,
fresh campfire coffee,
and bacon frying in the rusty cast iron skillet over the coals.
The blaze of orange sumac and the last, tart huckleberries
hang on nearby branches
reminding us to bid farewell.
The crisp air of sunrise greets me-
Your slow smile, a soft flannel shirt,
and the promise of a cool, peaceful season.
Good morning autumn.
September Weekend
The sun bleached table sits
Under a towering tamarack
with the trickle of a creek footsteps away.
The familiar smell of smoke lingers from conversation last night,
fresh campfire coffee,
and bacon frying in the rusty cast iron skillet over the coals.
The blaze of orange sumac and the last, tart huckleberries
hang on nearby branches
reminding us to bid farewell.
The crisp air of sunrise greets me-
Your slow smile, a soft flannel shirt,
and the promise of a cool, peaceful season.
Good morning autumn.