The Tent
Pretend the stars are gone, the moon has froze away;
pretend night’s stiffened digits are rubbing on the flap;
hear the canvas bleating out its chilly, muted pleas
to our restless, cold-numbed bodies. Bodies awake/asleep
that dream of warming autumn hours in a cabin
before the crinkling, yellow fingers of the fire –
dream of our hugging ever warmer on the blanket
till the cabin dreamly darkens, and we tire.
Or dream half-sleeping of a lovers’ summer night
pillowed together on a drifting, sandy beach;
and feel the beating, beating, beating of each other’s heart –
then wake eternal to wonder where the coldness went.
Oh to be lovers in the warm, warm sand
while wrapped thick in blankets in a January tent!
