Saying goodbye to the last camp of summer,
we walk alone under golden trees now turned
from their green work clothes, the ground
damp and rough with acorns.
 
The sand beach is blank, no shouts, no running feet,
no dogs. No water splashing. Only the wind ripples
the lake's blue face. A pair of loons drift to and fro.
 
The fire ring is cold. We are the last campers.
Tomorrow they lock the gate. We have one bundle
of wood left, unburned, and cannot take it with us.
 
We leave it stacked on the grill, a greeting
for the first-comers of next season, a small gift,
a welcome, a silent benediction of wood.

 
This poem first appeared in the 2020 Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets Calendar.
Used here with permission.