Poetic Bloomings Fire

One Last Cookout

In the country neighborhood,

where I grew up, we were

mostly relatives along with

 some long-time friends.

When fall colors, crisp air and smells

would cast on us their fallish spells,

we would almost in unison decide

it was time for one last wiener roast.

We kids would run to the woods

to cut marshmallow and wiener sticks,

while moms would cook goodies

and dads would build the camp fire.

We’d all gather at one of our homes

and spend the evening eating

playing games and toasting hotdogs

and marshmallows on the campfire.

And when the fire would burn low,

and we sang all the songs we knew,

and our fingers and noses were cold,

we’d call it a night, tired and content.