Archive
09/20/09
Quiet Saturday in Lake Nebagamon
It's almost two thirds the way through September, Yet the trees, save for sugar maples and wild sumacs (The first to display red shades of decay), Remain haughty, boastful, you might say, In their vibrant-green defiance of autumnal change.
Though a golden-glowing warmth pervades this village — Nearly eighty unseasonable degrees — No boaters, skiers, fishermen, seeking relaxation, Are roiling the lake's surface, Leaving dizzying hurly-burly in their wakes.
This quietude suits me just fine, Allows me solitude unintruded upon by human doing — The peace I've come here seeking, hoping to find, To mine from this clime's abundant stores of the sublime, And translate into psalms my mind might recite.
Not even bothering to lock my cabin door, I step out onto the porch, into a brilliant morning, Wearing only shorts, socks, jogging shoes, And in a heightened state of low-key excitement, I set off walking about the town, at an energized clip,
Slip into a meditative state of invisibility, Quickly outdistance not the limitations of time and place But the issues of who I am, why I exist, what's next, Which assail me, daily, even at sixty-eight, When I'm back in the city, watching clocks tock and tick. However many lifespans long an hour really is, That's what it takes me to complete my circuit, Return refreshed, disrobe, shower, shave, Assume my blue-jean-and-plaid-flannel identity, again, And savor Saturday's quiescence, for the rest of its destiny.
09/20/09
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