Sunday, August 12, 2007

This post ends with one of my favorite poems. It was shared with me on my birthday at summer camp by friend Kristen Case. It's the perfect poem for August 9th. It's around this time you realize there's only one more week of camp. You realize that school starts again in this month. The last verse is my favorite. This is the time we have.

This summer was the most summeriest summer I've had since camp. I didn't wear socks. Ever. I went to the beach. Twice (NC, SC). No, three times if you count the Illinois State Beach (which was frigid and buggy). I spent two hours just floating on my noodle talking to a friend at the Eno Quarry. I went swimming at the Eno Quarry in the middle of the day. Twice. Skinny-dipped (sort of). Swam in another quarry that was overlooked by a castlelike hotel. Hiked Devil's Lake in WI, Ice Caves in Ellenville, the American Tobacco Trail in another Ellenville. I saw snow. Twice. Temperatures were in the hundreds. I rode my bike every weekend. Got freaked out by violent thunderstorms. I fell asleep in a hammock with a book. Twice. I piled onto a hammock with four other friends and didn't spill my wine. The Farm provided several encounters with nature that reminded me of living in a little cabin in the woods. Friendships with pals like Ellen and Barb reminded me of the sisterhood I have with my dear, dear lifelong camp friends.

Those who know me know that my camp years (1986-1999)are among the most special years I have. This summer felt a little bit like camp and for that I am lucky.

So, with that, here's the poem. Enjoy. This is the time we have.

this high summer we love will pour its light
the fields grown rich and ragged in one strong moment
then before we're ready will crash into autumn
with a violence we can't accept
a bounty we can't forgive
night frost will strike when noons are warm
the pumpkins wildly glowing
the green tomatoes straining huge on vines
queen anne and blackeyed susan will struggle rusty
as the milkweed stakes her claim
she who will stand at last dark sticks barely rising
up through snow her testament of continuation

we'll dream of a longer summer
but this is the one we have
i lay my sunburnt hand on your table:
this is the time we have.

-Adrienne Rich

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