PRIMAVER(S)A: Curiously, in previous years the Spring Equinox seems to have signaled the muse to pay one of her random, and recently all-too-occasional, visits…
2026 (so far a rather unproductive year) now seemingly proving not to be a complete exception as this strange, short verse insisted on being birthed, (probably at least partially inspired by reading a passage, this morning, in a book referring to a remote tribe…) “Campfire”:
Campfire
Under sprawling oak,
Bold men sit and toke
Boasting of former glories,
As they huddle on a log
Young boys are agog
To the warp and weft of the stories.
Girls gossip and giggle
And newborns wriggle
Reaching for their mother’s pap
Old widows’ eyes glisten
As they watch and they listen
While stringing beads in their lap
In the campfire’s glow
When the light fades low
Sun-sinking out of sight,
A furtive glance
Foretells a dalliance
To come in the dead of night
An elder stokes the fire
The flames leap higher
Keeping predators at bay
And the others fettle
Skins on which they settle
Until the break of day