A True and Accurate Record of the Grand Expedition

Poem No. 203

Late last night, in moonlight filtered by low, swift clouds, I noticed the hills behind our home were wearing crowns of snow. They melted at first light, but reminded me of this poem, about a wintry childhood adventure:

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A True and Accurate Record of the Grand Expedition

My mother baked potatoes, 
wrapping them in foil 
to keep we cousins from freezing
in our sleeping bags, 

and at the chosen hour 
we journeyed many dozens of feet 
into the darkening forest
to make our sturdy camp.

In the night our tarp collapsed 
so gently we never noticed,
and we woke to a crystalline dawn, 
delighted at the warm blanket of snow
and ravenous for our potatoes. 

They did not, however, satisfy. 

So, after a brief and hungry silence, 
we broke camp and returned to base 
to give our full report, 
and to inquire as to the availability 
of dry mittens, a hearty fire,

and pancakes.

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I hope my poem this week finds you enjoying a cozy adventure,
~ A

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