Poem

When We Sold the Tent by Rhina P. Espaillat from Playing at Stillness.

When we sold the tent
we threw in the Grand Canyon
with its shawl of pines,
lap full of cones and chipmunks
and crooked seams of river.

We let them have the
parched white moonscapes of Utah,
and Colorado's
magnificent of flowers
sun bursting hill after hill.

Long gentle stretches
of Wyoming, rain outside
some sad Idaho
town where the children, giddy
with strange places, clowned all night.

Eyes like small veiled moons
circling our single light, sleek
shadows with paw prints,
all went with the outfit; and
youth, a river of campfires.

(Random post, while we're away, in North Carolina.)