Opening the Camp

One Saturday each spring we would convene To open up the camp to sun and air. Light screens replaced wood shutters, and a fresh And curtain-flapping breeze hummed through the mesh. Rooms saw us, whom for months they hadn't seen; Long-dormant creaks woke when we climbed the stair. Some things reproached our having been away. Brushing against wire hangers in bare closets, We'd hear them jangle restlessly for clothes To bring them occupation and repose; In cedar chests, the sheets and blankets lay As lifeless as alluvial deposits. Yet as we hammered cross-slats to a lattice (Some spare nails tightly pursed between our lips), Or toss-swung to the backyard's weedy slope Mop water like a heavy flashing rope, The place seemed less concerned with angers at us Than with rekindling old relationships. The lake was high with snow-melt, and, come noon, We'd lunch above it, watching white caps build. And if the wind and water's play seemed rough, The reason for their zest was clear enough: Too long, they'd had few chances to commune Save through holes that ice fishermen had drilled. We wanted the warm weather to begin, But chilliness and rawness had their charms; The northward-inching sun would soon invest The birds with the authority to nest And bring back color to our pasty skin And bleach the dark hairs on our wrists and arms. The future was a tentative unfurling. We'd play catch for a while; work would resume. Shelf paper went in cupboards and in drawers; The vacuum cleaner to-and-fro-ed the floors; We'd reach into high corners, lightly twirling Cobwebs like cotton candy to a broom.