Adirondack

Posted On November 24, 2020

Author’s Note:

I never know when or how a story or verse will arrive. They always seem to appear out of nowhere and catch me off guard. This poem originally came to me while I was standing in my kitchen making a big pot of wild turkey soup, which has somehow become something of a Monroe family tradition.

I never hunted turkeys with my father while I was growing up Adirondack. There weren’t any up there then. There was no season for them.

Now, however, thanks to wild turkey the reintroduction efforts of my Father’s NYS DEC, wild turkey populations exist throughout New York State, and my son and I are able to successfully enjoy hunting them.

So, while he is no longer with us to enjoy the hunt. Every time I make wild turkey soup, it somehow takes me back. A gift from my father, who gave me all that I am, in my life Adirondack.

Anyways, without further ado, here it is, a brief poem to share while memory’s camp pot simmers and we all await the true onset of spring.

I hope you enjoy it as much as everyone always seems to savor my soup.

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Adirondack

Mountain Stream Baptized

Wild Blueberry Glazed

Hardwood Fire Smoked

High Peaks Lake Raised

Flannel Sophisticated

Be It Rod, Axe or Paddle

Native Brook Trout Nourish My Soul

Canoe as My Saddle

Snowshoe Trek Shod

North Star Night Guided

Through Time’s Sometimes Steep Passage

Shall My Life’s Trail Be Decided

Campfire Spiced, Blackfly Bitten

Balsam, Spruce, Tamarack

Wherever I Pitch Camp

I Am Forever and Always

In My Heart

Adirondack

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Until Our Trails Cross Again:

ADKO