Backyard Camping

A beachball rests beside the empty porch.

The moon reflects its solitary twin.

No campfire, but a cintronella torch

casts light upon this self-indulgent whim.

The dog knows what it means to sleep outdoors.

Released from stifled heat to Gaia’s bed,

her blissful sighs dilute congested snores,

and, back to curled back, our souls are fed.

At first it’s hard to pull from cyber’s lure,

release to living drama in the hood,

but instinct knows the yard’s medic’nal cure

is potent, pure and for the higher good.

My heart ascends when dawn invokes birdsong;

the anthem call affirming we belong.