Driving to Camp Lend-A-Hand

for Emma Grace

The day we picked our daughter up from camp,

goldenrod lined the road, towheaded scouts

bowing on both sides, the parting of macadam

as we drove, the fields dry, the sky lacy with clouds.

A farmer waved. A horse shrugged its haughty head.

We stopped for corn, just picked, and plums and kale,

sampled pies, still warm, and tarts and honeyed bread.

Sheets on a line ballooned out like a ship’s sail.

Time stopped in those miles before we saw her.

For eight days we hadn’t tucked her in or brushed

her hair or watched her grow, the week a busy blur

of grown-up bliss. It came anyway, that uprush

of fear—because somewhere a child was dead:

at a market, a subway, a school, in a lunatic’s bed.

Copyright Credit: Poem copyright ©2006 by Berwyn Moore, whose most recent book of poetry is Dissolution of Ghosts, Cherry Grove Collections, 2005. Poem reprinted from Nimrod International Journal of Poetry and Prose, Vol. 49, no. 2, by permission of Berwyn Moore.