the days are long.
chickens peck 'til almost nine, and i put babes to bed
before the sun.
my eyes, light-starved from dreary winter-spring,
soak in summer hungrily. something about wild green grass feels
holy: we take off shoes (and track mud across the kitchen).
irises bloom, seedlings grow, children dig.
i sip my coffee on the porch.
but the days are long. camp life whirs frenetic as
regular life slows to a crawl. the periphery is always
an awkward perch. some days
i want to kick something. i want to punch it real hard.
i'd settle for a lock on the bathroom door.
