Retreat at Camp Kulaqua

It was cold last November,
even in my grey hoodie
and long polka-dotted socks.
We walked in the grassy field,
not yet wet with dew.
Just Kelsi and I.
The stars twinkled,
untainted by the lights
of the city.
The air had a crisp taste,
and we exhaled white clouds.
“Let’s lay down,” she said.
And for the first time in years,
I laid in the moist earth and soft grass.
Our voices were soft drones,
meshing with chirruping crickets
and rustling leaves
as we spoke of our tragedies.

“God,” I said, “life’s a bloody mess sometimes.”
“But not tonight,” she said.
“No, not tonight,” I agreed.
We lay holding hands, tickled by grass
and enamored by pictures
in the untainted stars,
until we shivered ourselves
to sleep.