Archive 09/20/10 - (5)

 

   

High Priest

                                                                  

 

With thirty-five-mile-per-hour blasts thrusting Lake Nebagamon

Right into the shore just below this shuddering cabin,

I find myself, at eleven, sitting out on the end of the dock,

Being rocked, knocked around, frightened, dazed,

By the utter force of shrill air tearing the night to shreds.

 

Suddenly, the sky dies down to an eerie silence.

The ivory moon is ripe fruit I pluck, replant in my mind's arbor,

Where it grows, turns into an Ojibwe high priest

Painting bears, deer, eagles, on the sky's glacier-gouged cliffs.

I revel in nature's emulation of man's first artistic creations.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                               

 

09/20/10 - (5)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
       

 

 

 
   
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