My Meadow is a Memory

My meadow is a memory
caught between moon rises and 
the chorus of peepers.
Fuzzy at first, 
I close my eyes
to recollect more clearly
the path through tall grasses and 
the din of young voices coming from 
the distant barn. 
A vague wind blows 
the scent of late summer past my camp- 
freshly cut grass 
then brush pile smoke 
and with it, 
my meadow memories.