Cold Camp '99

The best camp
I ever hated
Was the
Cold Camp
Of ’99.

There were no sounds
But that of
Crickets
Cicadas
And whatever prowled
My perimeter.

There was no fire
Other than stars and planets
Fierce above.

Dull thoughts
Plucked at my heart
Rendering discordant
Needless strain.

There are times
It is reasonable
To reject joy
To have no diversion.

It is good
To stare into the darkness
Knowing anything may be
Staring back.

Early in the slate
Of morning
Lightening strobbed
And thunder rolled the river.
Great splats of rain
Threw their cartridges
Against the nylon of my tent.

Until the monochrome
Of dawn
I wrapped my soul
In the ensuing deluge.

Sometimes
An empty heart
Requires a Cold Camp
To sharpen the blade
Against its strop.