APRIL BIVY ATOP BLACK BUTTE, Central Cascades . . .
On the road in the American Northwest. [ click photo for next . . . ]
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ODE TO MY TENT
Outer skin of my own body,
worn, cracked, sunburned,
from exposure on three continents . . .
O, shelter upon which I depend.
In our happy salad days,
we'd have a shiny new fly shipped
from afar straight to our basecamp,
Ah yes, but young love always
goes the way of wrinkles and tears . . .
Taped, spliced, torn, stiched, pieced together
in the true knowledge
that staying together
is the real and pure nature of trust,
the simple quintessence of security.
Stormy nights, months of snow and sorrow,
of fabric saturated beyond any reasonable limit,
of waking up in a sleeping bag wetter
than yesterday's tossed tea bag,
yet always still together as one.
Even mosquitoes and ants know the rules.
I ask: Is the collapse, say, of great Nations,
always due to the blatant and obvious excesses
of wasteful war, or drought, or famine,
or the hubris of emprie extended beyond the possible?
Or do we sometimes go down simply by holding on
too long to what we love, love, perhaps, too much?
I know: When we love, we should let go.
But how could I? And my friends who understand
such things tell me I must get a new one.
But where do old tents go when they die, I ask?
Surely, not to mere sentiment, to mere memory.
No, they must re-embody in some more subtle realm
as pure geometry! That is what I tell myself. What better,
what more noble fate, could the gods insure?
Comforting thought for my old, old,