A Toast

I thought to drink

The last of my vacation

In this glass, 

This mid-summer amber, 

This hard-won 

Fruit of the cane, 

I thought to 

Remember it so, 

Free of the tangle of 

Savage vines, 

Thorned whips, 

Secret holes 

That would eat my ankles.  

I thought to honor my 

Elders, knowing too well

My own lower grade; 

But without resentment, 

With nothing but 

Gratitude, 

Nothing but pride 

For that measure given.  

I thought to salute my 

Working brothers and sisters,

As poor a mate as I, 

Thankful for those lessons taught.  

I thought to remember 

My departed friend,

My childhood gone with him, 

With this medicine 

That cures all hope.  

I saw his face then,

Wise, calm, maybe turned to the 

Lowering sun--

And I, abashed, 

Having stumbled into 

That far-away campsite 

A famished ghost 

And bewildered 

To find myself there

After all that running.