Archive
05/18/09 - (2)
The Gatekeeper
Boisterous and blustery and gusty are what this day is. It's a real corker, a feisty son-of-a-bitch, a devil, If you happen to be heading into the wind,
Which I am, just this bristling, ear-splitting minute, Trying to make my way down East Waterfront Drive, Along the lake, to the rear gate of the shuttered boys' camp,
Where I hope to locate a few ghosts, from my past, Lurking in the viridescing trees, white clapboard cabins, And beneath winter's pine-cone-and-brown-needle debris.
My weathering this hike depends, entirely, on the wind, Whether or not it decides to quit pushing me back, defiantly, Standing me up, with its fists to my chest and chin.
Right now, it's treating me as though I were a trespasser. Perhaps I'd better turn back, wait until this afternoon, To see if the next gatekeeper recognizes me.
05/18/09 - (2)
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