Camping

I want to go camping with my son;

I want to take him to stay in the pines

and not reassure him that he is all safe

in the dark wilderness, because he is not.

But I would die protecting him.

I want to go camping with my son

and take him to places I loved as a boy

knowing he won’t love them the same,

unless he does.

I want to go camping and tell my son

“I love you,”

by the lake

by the fire

by the pines

under the sky

above the roar of the creek

and let the words soak into the

mountain crags

with no echo

and my son will hear them

through the indifferent wild.

Or, he won’t.

I want to go camping with my son

and he will tell me

“I love you,”

over snapping twigs

over scraping dirt

over crunched needles

over the afternoon wind

below the canopy

the words will relay among the trunks

with the buoyancy of wood

and I will hear them

through the sun of sweet heaven.

Or, I won’t.

I want to go camping with my son,

answering about the forest and animals.

He’ll get dirty and sleep with no bath;

I will hold him by firelight, in the cold.

He will pee through his clothes;

I will change him in the frozen night.

We will snuggle under blankets

and he will jam his knees into my ribs

and wake me in my deepest sleep.

I will hear his small breath swallowed

by the heavy dark.

I want to go camping with my son

and wake with nothing to do

but propane, coffee, skillet and eggs

and chocolate

and a walk to find the biggest tree

and the creatures he needs to see again.

I want to go camping with my son.

I hope I do.