A Poem

Summer Camp

Sunny afternoons:
the nap time was Nirvana

Unplugged playing—
a sound in harmony with those

insects, leaves in the breeze,
low drone of passenger jets,

the curtains at the window.
We were in junior high.

I felt Siddhartha’s peace
then. My counselor

and his CD, that stereo,
the birds outside

illustrated in bright colors,
singing along the new path.