Archive
09/18/08 - (1)
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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