I have walked with ghosts and memories
and faint shadows of happy children now grown.
I have witnessed wind-struck pines,
bent and brown and hopelessly forlorn.
I have paced the narrow asphalt drive
to find fading tent sites once enjoyed,
where rustic tables hosted summer meals
and campfire laughter graced the twilight.
The numbered signs, in yellow paint,
have been removed or simply fallen,
except that proclaiming “17,”
which has a piece missing but perseveres.
Today’s explorers may discern narrow paths
down to the rock strewn lakeside,
where smooth stones were sometimes gathered
or piled up by little girls
who might not have noticed their fathers
peering out across the water,
summoning such musings as
the company and location might encourage.