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There's camping, and then there is Summer Camp. I love both, but the former is because of the latter. I spent every summer since the age of 8 at one summer camp or another, until I was 30 years old. For 8 years, it was a full-time job for me. So camp is in my blood. And while I've enjoyed doing some library-related poems, the camp ones are the ones with real emotion behind them. Most will be generic enough to apply to anyone who's ever worked at, or gone to, a summer camp. But this one is all about Wenonah. The final campfire. The night of fire: canoe ballet, flaming W, every person holding a candle, passing the flame from person to person, connecting everyone in that moment.