Archive
08/17/09 - (1)
Clocking In
It's barely 6:45, On this cloudless, cerulean Monday dawn, Yet I've already punched metaphor's time clock, On the end of this wet, wood-planked dock. Even now, the sun has noted my arrival.
Across the water, Toward the old YMCA camp in the south bay, A loon lets loose a flurry of worried tremolos. In the giant white pine leaning, precariously, Just below my cabin's porch door,
Boisterous crows — five or eight, at least — Are too busy dominating this early hour, With their abrasive calls and responses, to notice me; Perhaps they imagine themselves Chanticleers, With the fabled duty of waking the lake's kingdom.
And here I sit, amidst this crisp Wisconsin breeze, Listening to the rhythmic waves Performing their subtle dance, against the sandy shore, Realizing I've only got the whole day to make a poem From nothing but everything surrounding me.
08/17/09 - (1)
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