Archive 09/24/09 - (1)

   

Grace

                                                                  

 

The hundred-fifty-foot, green-limbed white pine tree,

Leaning precariously shoreward, just off my cabin's porch,

Is caw-cawing, with a cohort of eight bellicose crows.

Five crazily calling Canada geese fly by, high.

Wailing loons insinuate the distance, with their primordial chorus.

 

Silvery mist, this chilly, fifty-degree Thursday morning,

Is lifting dizzily, sinuously as breath on a cold day,

From each of Lake Nebagamon's warm bays.

And spreading in creamy, opalescent tints, above everything,

The yet-unrisen sun's ubiquitous annunciation of its coming.

 

What's missing from this tableau approximating genesis,

I needn't ask myself; I already know. It's me.

To complete this scene, I have to make my relevance felt,

Appear to be in possession of some raison d'être,

A quintessential sense of consequence, to justify my presence.

 

But what that might possibly be, I'm not altogether certain,

Lest it have everything to do

With whether this rendition of Creation gets written down,

Passed on, as a reminder, to mankind's generations,

That our place in nature is defined by imagination's grace.

 

 

                               

 

                                                   

 

 

                                               

 

09/24/09 - (1)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
       

 

 
   
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