Milford, PA

dawn storms of new free returns

riding close to an almost reverie,

the Jersey Y-camp again,

and a simple decision to become squatters for the night

bunking with the ghosts of our ancient lost tribes

(silly cat jumping at the white rope fence

as today elbows closer to today)

this continuous land gift

shared in secret years past,

silent telephones remain,

rich carrot-pea soup blazing in the giant abandoned kitchen,

outside, the euphoria of rebirth in these hills

engendering mighty electric summer storms

washing crashing surrounding

on and on,

unceasing

(later we find old cabin Judah

where I once made a go at being every young kid’s buddy

learning objectivity about new directions,

while again I transport home

rediscovering old ancient Jewish scribed names on the withered beams,

termited cracked walls

preserving memories left to memories

[O Krasner, you were a prankster then!])

after a long walk up a rocky graveyard trail

this storm-studded nighttime,

bullfrogs croaking at lakeshore ,

wistfulness later melts into my warm bag

still damp from sweet Milford Rose,

snuggled inside this forest camp country

inside these distant thundering Delaware River Junetime storms

6/7/73