Just Once, Under Canvas

Pack up the car with the pillows and snacks,
the lantern, the cooler, the chairs in their sacks.
Leave the Wi-Fi behind and the dishes piled high,
and trade your tall ceiling for one starry sky.

The tent will go up with some laughs and a fuss,
a pole in the wrong place, a zipper to cuss.
But soon it’s a house, a small nylon home,
with sleeping bags ready and room left to roam.

The kids will find treasures you’d never have seen:
a feather, a frog, and a stick shaped like a queen.
They’ll race to the creek, come back muddy and loud,
then lie in the grass naming shapes in each cloud.

At dusk comes the fire, the crackle and glow,
the marshmallow puffed up, then burned, then just so.
The stories come easy when screens are turned off,
between the soft owl hoots and a sleepy kid’s cough.

You’ll zip up together, all cozy and tight,
with rain on the roof or the moon shining bright.
And somewhere at midnight, as everyone sleeps,
you’ll feel it: the kind of night memory keeps.

It won’t be perfect, and that’s the whole charm.
Someone will get bug bites all over one arm.
But years from now, ask them which night they’d choose,
and it’s the tent and the fire, not the TV or the news.

So go, just once, and bring every comfort you own,
the rug and the blankets, the pillow from home.
Because the best kind of camping, the kind that will stay,
is love it, don’t rough it, together all day. 🏕️