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09/22/08 - (2)
Bois Brule
This past Friday afternoon, I traveled the five miles, as the goshawk flies, To the Winneboujou canoe landing, on the Bois Brule, Just to stop for a while, stand there, mesmerized, And watch the quick, rippling river Meander through crosshatched shadows of the forest Wandering down to the banks, to wade, cool off.
For what could have been mere minutes, lifetimes, Just listening to that water skittering past me, I actually began to believe I'd discovered, If not the fountain of eternal youth, At least the secret to the subtleties of aging gracefully, What sages, contemplating time's passage, know: Composure is in the soul of the beholder.
09/22/08 - (2)
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