The Perfect Smore

May 25, 2009
By Tara Ramsey SILVER, Shelton, Washington
Tara Ramsey SILVER, Shelton, Washington
6 articles 0 photos 0 comments

To make a s’more, some people think,
you don’t have to be very smart,
But that’s a lie, it’s wrong, you see,
for s’more making is an art.

Those people think, to make a s’more,
you simply let it catch on fire,
But whoever told you that burnt is best
was obviously a liar.

Burning a marshmallow is like cheating,
like stealing answers from a friend,
‘Cause if you don’t put in the work,
it always tastes worse in the end.

Perfect s’mores are hard to find,
and nearly impossible to make,
Especially when there is so much to lose,
and so much that is at stake.

I almost made a perfect one,
at a camp fire in July,
I came so close, I was nearly there.
It’s still hard not to cry.

I did everything with perfect form,
I was brave and smart and bold,
I held that marshmallow to the flames
‘til every inch was gold.

My family talked around me
about unimportant things,
my ears heard the rush of water,
the flap of silent wings.

But I had eyes only for that marshmallow
not for the moon or stars or sea,
and if that marshmallow had eyes of it’s own
it’s eyes would be for me.

I watched it turn a brownish gold,
watched the flames that liked it’s side,
and as my marshmallow neared perfection,
my heart was filled with pride.

By then it was drooping off it’s stick,
about to fall into the flame,
so I finally pulled it from the fire
with a sense of s’more flavored fame.

I’d done it! I really did!
S’more roasting perfection was mine!
Joy flooded my soul like a waterfall
and trickled down my spine.

So happy was I in my hour of success
that I punched the air with my hand,
then watched in silent horror,
as it plummeted toward the sand.

I tried to save it in a final attempt,
but alas, I was to late,
I clutched the air as my marshmallow
was clutched by the icy hand of fate.

I’m still haunted by my loss
as I lay in bed at night,
and since I dropped that marshmallow,
I haven’t made one right.

The marshmallow lies forgotten
trampled on that moonlit beach,
and no matter haw far I stretch,
the perfect s’more is always beyond my reach.

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