Wilderness

I unbury my tent
from the closet floor,
to loan it to my daughter.

When did you last use it?

I unfurl the desert from the bag,
the dust scent held for a decade,
my crisp, blue parachute.

I never packed it wet.
I always folded in loose thirds
before rolling it tight.

I clip it up and push
silky aluminum stakes
into the soil. Hello home.

I slide myself into the blue
and look through the mesh skylight
with its suggestion of stars.

I hear the percolator bubbling,
a river, too, feel the granite
and taste tin tuna, oily cheese.

It’s not too late to join us.

Oh yes, it is too late.
I had my time. Thank God,
what a time I had.