The First Time We Went Camping
       

The road veered off
like a quarrel. Turned
into a little dirt field

where we set up our tent
in the humiliation
of the car's headlights.

Were we frightened
by the sound of creatures
stepping through branches?

Did one of us douse the fire?
Did we sleep? Did we kiss
despite the hard ground?

I remember we drove into town
the next morning for breakfast,
embarrassed to be

so unprepared.
What we didn't see then—
it took years—

was the way we were equally determined
to use whatever we had.
And what did we have?

At least that.

And now at daybreak
after so many darknesses
and so many dawns,

the sky, slow with its light,
turns blue as a pool
from which our daughter emerges,

unready, blinking and wet.

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Copyright © 2016 Fay Dillof All rights reserved
from New Ohio Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission