Deep Pockets
He sits cross-legged
On smooth, gray granite
Outside the tent,
And watches the light
Turn from gold to silver,
Caught in that space between
Daylight and dusk,
When all things seem possible,
And the remarkable,
Ordinary.
To hold his day
Longer, closer,
He goes through his pockets,
And chooses memories
To save forever.
He lays out treasures
Found on the trail,
One by one,
In neat rows upon the rock,
And studies each item with
Solemn consideration,
Weighing the merits
Of this over that.
It takes time to decide
Which to take home,
Which to show his mother,
And which he will line up
Along his shelves,
To be looked at
Again and again,
On dreary, gray days
When the warmth of summer
Is a visitor long departed.
Decisions like these
Aren’t made in a moment,
But rather, by pondering
Carefully, thoughtfully.
Here, a feather
Of startling blue,
Found beneath a jay’s
Untidy nest.
And this? This rumpled,
Transparent length,
Imprinted by the scales
Of the snake it once clothed?
His mother will squeal
In pretend horror,
But will smile and relent.
Yes, he thinks.
I’ll keep this one, too.
One by one,
They come out of his pockets
Like rabbits from a magician’s hat.
Pale, blue stones rubbed smooth in the creek.
A snail shell whirled in cream and tan,
Thin as tissue, yet still intact.
A triangular piece of glittery flint,
Sharp and pointed along one side,
Like an arrowhead left unfinished.
Yes, to all of these!
They are mine now,
Part of my summer.
Pockets turned out
To the bottom, he finds —
Half a stick of linty gum,
A rusty key, stuck
In a broken lock.
A pencil stub,
A whistle that doesn’t blow,
And a few unidentified crumbs.
No, and no, and no.
He’s made his choices,
And tucked them away,
In an old plastic box, under his cot.
Maybe he’ll look at them
Long years from now,
Conjuring up these weeks
Spent camping with his dad,
When every day was an adventure,
Captured in the blue of a feather,
Caught in the curve of a shell,
Or a piece of glittery flint.
He’ll think about these
Endless summers, and remember
How simple it all seemed,
When he was a boy
Of ten.
The Write Stuff 