Freeze-dried vegetable soup

A poem.

The snowstorm catches us
 with tent down, fire out.
 The lake is churned white,
 and in the half-dark
 shouting commands above the wind
 we secure our sailing tent to the earth.

Inside, the water achieves its boil slowly
 like our long climb out of the valley –
 switchbacks riding ridge after ridge.
 The soup is a steamy garden
 filling our tent with aromatic arguments
 against the cold. And now the tightness
 which has grazed at our corded necks
 begins to release –
 a long sigh of expectations eased.

Outside, the elements are a jealous howl
 hurled through the darkness,
 as we lie ensconced in warm down bags.
 With dawn the storm is gone
 our tent stands still –
 a white sail on the edge of a blue lake.