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05/20/09 - (1)
Minute to Second to Eye Blink
If all I had to rely on, By which to reckon the tenor and texture of this blustery day, From within my shore-woven cabin, Were my eyes and ears — mere vision and hearing — I'd have to say, without speculation or lesser-informed guessing, That they would approximate yesterday's biting chill, With wind-whipped temperatures in the low fifties, if not below.
But when, not a minute out of bed, My veins and bones still filled with sleep, I tentatively open the kitchen's doors and step onto the porch, Facing the furiously thrashed pine trees and shoreline (The lake's waves are as riled and violent as the trees' limbs), Expecting to be battered, lashed, by frigid blasts of air, I'm idling, instead, beside a Florida ocean, in July.
Only, this is northern Wisconsin — Lake Nebagamon — in mid-May, And it refuses to offer any explanation, at all, As to its dramatic climactic variations From day to day, hour to hour, minute to second to eye blink. Looking out, over the dancing expanse of whitecaps, Reveling in the wind's eighty-degree thrusts buffeting my flesh, I'm reminded how viscerally change insists upon itself.
05/20/09 - (1)
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