Camp Grounded: Saturday
Context – Camp Grounded was one of the finest weekends I’ve ever had. On Friday night I got to listen to live 1920s jazz with a stand-up piano in a yurt decorated as a tea house beneath towering redwoods. On Saturday morning upon waking in my tent to the sounds of birds, my pause button bracelet got caught in a zipper. I wrote this over coffee while watching others do sunrise yoga.
A thrice-triumphant bugle heralds start,
the dawn of first full day we’d share a-ground
accompanied by bird call singsong art
melodically cascading joy around.
The moments flashed upon my inward eye
of tea and rugs and warmth and expert jazz
of marshmallow perfection carbonized,
of deeper meaning flaming cello has.
And in this moment, caught in sleeping bag
was small accessory I wore on wrist,
suggesting I embrace time’s present lag
and pause, as here I needn’t true self miss.
I rise, to be a dry, receiving sponge
of smile and words as we to kinship plunge.