The dirt beneath him was damp,
yet he lay there for a time, unknowing, contemplating.
He had brought nothing
and had nothing except for this camp,

Where the trees seemed to reach out at him, twisting and writhing.
No kind soul to keep him,
but his own.
None to confide in.

The dying fire illuminated less than half of him, and the crescent moon shone on his back and side,
casting shadow in all directions.
The cold burrowed deep into his flesh.
There was no escape, he knew, yet still he tried to hide.

It seemed to work; he was back home, in a garden-field.
The grass was warm and dry,
the trees tall and everlasting.
He heard a voice say: ''Dear, I cannot find you, where are you? I yield''

He couldn't recall who it was, but his troubles faded at the sound of their shout.
The dirt beneath him was damp,
yet he lay there, unknowing and contemplating.
The fire almost out

He added more fuel,shaping the twigs like a dome,
then curled up into a ball.
He thought of the garden;
he thought of home.