The viscous air of childhood
slowed our every move.
We filled our tired, pumping lungs
what we know not of.
—
Perhaps nostalgia premature
haunting unaware
or dreams to be and memories
traced fingers through our hair.
—
The atmosphere of time long past,
the essence of those days,
brushed up against our consciousness
in unsuspected ways.
—
The creek that cooled us all day long
that wrapped around our tents and fire
whispered to us through the night.
It’s gentle voice would not retire.
—
Instead it filled the cooling air
with mist and fog and another thing,
a presence we could feel and sense
that pulled us close around the ring.
—
It held the strums of dad’s guitar
and the verses known by Mr. Green.
Through thick night song would not go far,
so into the warmth we leaned.
—
The smoke seeped deep into our clothes.
It snuck with us into our tents.
It clung days more through camp and woods.
That aura followed where we went.
—
Those halcyon days were defined
by the strangely viscous air.
We carried it with us on our skin.
It sunk into our hair.
—
But arriving home we washed and scrubbed.
We packed away our gear.
And though we could recite some songs,
they rang hollow in our ears.
—
Now it’s been ages since I’ve camped
or shared a song with a friend.
Life as a man is stark and clear.
Fogs always fade at dream’s end.