Archive
07/05/09 - (1)
The Fifth of July
If last night was a chaotic fugue of sounds and sights, This quiet Sunday a.m. Is a melodic hymn to the lake, trees, and sky, A beatitude in silver, green, and creamy blue.
Gone are the phosphorescent girandoles That flickered, for hours, like lightning in a violent storm, Around all ten miles of Lake Nebagamon's shoreline, After the village's fireworks drifted into afterglow.
Now, the residents of this land are home, Bathed by a deeply serene sleep and forgetting, As though no celebrations of freedom ever occurred. Timelessness has returned to it normal pace.
07/05/09 - (1)
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