Finding My Place
Were it not for the twenty-mile-per-hour gusts
Stirring up the air, to a majestic turbulence,
Tuning the trees to a sonorous, melodic cacophony,
This incandescent Lake Nebagamon afternoon,
These sixty-six degrees
Would actually be, if it's possible, almost too hot.
As was the case on my last visit, this past June,
The lake's surface is a frenzy of argent water spirits.
Only, this time, they recognize me; I'm certain of it.
But for all its boisterous noise,
This hazy-blue, sun-blazing Thursday
Finds its place, in the sheltering realm of my being,
So easily, so palpably, so peacefully, so naturally,
I might never have left here, three months ago.
Maybe, this trip, I won't go home.
09/18/08 - (1)
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