by Robin Chapman

Camp Emmaeus

Dear Ones– reading Thoreau,
"it was morning, and lo, now
it is evening, and nothing
memorable is accomplished"–
all of us walking the woods,
the aspen leaves again, those
sticky green mirrors of light
trilling in wind, and the oaks'
slow grey-green a bass line
rumbling, the river's waters
a tannin brown, the bluejay's
bell calls struck and ringing.
Barefoot in new green grass
we danced, reaching our hands
up like the nodding heads
of prairie shooting star,
folding them in front
of our hearts like the dark
blood petals of wake robin
trillium, all of us rooted
in earth and waving to sky,
sun streaming through,
and then it was evening.

- Originally appeared in