We're having two poems this week because it is too hot to think. Please remind me I felt this way come January.
It's a camping poem which is sort of silly because:
1. It's too hot to go camping.
2. The state parks are shut down, so we'd have to go camping in the backyard. And why would we do that when we can be inside in the air conditioning? I think we have fully established now that I am a very poor outdoors person.
And that makes me laugh and dedicate today's poem to my cousin JP again. Shortly after Brent and I were married we stopped at his house on our way to camping in Yellowstone National Park. JP had apparently missed what we were doing because he said to his mother, "Lisa?!?! Camping?!?!" Let me make this clear -- too many camping trips on the frozen mountainside with my parents scarred me for life. I can camp; I just prefer the steady temperature and reliably horizontal surface of a hotel bed.
Camping
Winifred C. Marshall
Summertime has come again
And camping days are here,
With fishing, swimming, boating, too --
The best time of the year.
We climb the trees and go on hikes,
And all grow strong and brown.
Our friends will hardly know us
When we get back to town.
We do not miss the telephone,
The movies, or the cars,
When we can fish and hike all day,
And sleep beneath the stars.
