We can camp
without leaving home,
swishing the toothbrush
about in the cup
when the water is off.

Cuddling beneath a pile
of blankets so heavy
we can hardly move,
a quilt your great
grandmother made.

There is this feeling
I get carrying in wood,
hurrying out just
before dark,
alive to the truth
of bodily life,
the need for shelter
and warmth.

In winter the darkness
is so much darker,
I cook supper
from a place
so deep I can hardly
Is there anyone else
but me –
I can’t be sure.

We are camping
without leaving home,
in a place we arrived
at by going farther
and farther down
country roads,
taking the thinner
and finer lines
on the map.

To recall
how we got here
would hardly be
worth the effort,
we are camping
out, that is all
that matters.