Memories with my father
flow through mountain forests,
tree topped hills and valley streams;
in nature, we were tourists.
We came for brisk, clean air,
we came to walk the hills.
We came for nature’s music,
earthly quiet, never still.
The glow of evening campfire
warmed hands and faces near
as the fog of frosty breath
would pause for sips of beer.
Night brought foreign sounds
outside fabric staked to poles.
We nestled in soft layers
to keep out the wind and cold.
Mornings came with the sun
calling to leave the bed
but frosty air would keep you in
until nature called instead.
There were campsite chores to do
but it didn’t matter when.
These forests with my father
are some of the best places that I’ve been.
This poem was posted for the previous week’s poetry prompt, More than just a place
Poetry Prompts and Poems 