Maine Summers

It’s nearly one am; I’m awake

after a day of temperatures nearly 112 degrees.

I’m lying in the dark

listening to the clacking turbine of the cooler

blowing sweet moist air into my room.

I am grateful.

The ceiling fans’ sway

pushes the heavy air over my body,

finally reaching a level of comfort that requires a blanket.

I am reminded of a summer spent in Maine;

wild blueberries, lobsters, shrieking cousins’ play,

and the dewy wet blanket of an early morning chill.

Maine is always a little cool for my tastes in the summer.

I prefer the dry heat of the desert;

but my father was a camper

and loved the outdoors.

There is a certain smell

to the damp of camping;

tonight the swamp box

fighting the heat has achieved it,

sending my senses to summers

in East Coast adventures

amongst the wild my father preferred.


I can almost feel

the texture of the wet grasses

against canvas.

As I close my eyes,

I am immediately whisked away

hearing the unmistakable


of metal tent zippers,

the chortle of June play

in the sunshine and freedom

that those excursions afforded us.

Days were spent fishing or crabbing

with raw chicken bait on monofilament or in cages,

evenings of smoky fires and marshmallows.

It was simple then,

it seemed to be anyway—

the fantasy of ease

was a welcomed entertainment for all.

2016 copyright by Katie Pifer

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