Closing up the Camp

It’s late, later than usual, this moving day,

closing up the camp, readying it

for hibernation in the winter snow, falling

soon enough, sooner than we may be ready for,

but a single pair of loons still calls out,

echoing in the early morning and in late night’s darkness,

enticing us to stay, the loons, too,

perhaps, not wanting to leave either,

like us, remaining here, late in going,

and the squirrels scamper still above us,

foraging for winter’s larder tucked away,

as we lay here, warm under electric heat,

for the nights are getting colder, lower, in the 20s,

the days not rising much above freezing's boundary,

and we fear the pipes’ freezing, and the mess,

this camp not a winter camp, but the summer home

we cling to into autumn, holding on,

a morning fire crackling in the wood stove,

smoke rising acrid through unsealed cracks,

and the cast iron taking on the heat to warm us,

taking off the morning chill, so today,

giving in, letting go -- it’s time -- 

the cold and the fear drive us out,

back to the warmth of our winter place,

furnace warmed, a warmth held in by insulated walls

against the winter cold and snow,

to ward off what we cannot change, cannot stop,

but today, one last time till spring's thaw, we huddle together

around the stove, the fire snapping, sipping coffee, silent

and alone in our thoughts, delaying what we must do,

reflecting on our own lives, our own autumns,

the seasons of our lives, what we cannot change,

what we cannot stop, letting go.