Tamara Kamis // CAMPFIRE

Flames crackle ruby gold,

songs are sung and stories told.

The mountains ring

as the crickets sing.


No phones, no laptops, no town, no cars

Smiles wide beneath the stars .

Burning marshmallow smells all around,

and sticky chocolate hands abound.


The crescent moon above glows bright.

Beneath the pines, we keep our light.

Wood smoke and jokes fill the crisp night air,

the song of crickets