Archive
09/25/10 - (4)
A Pine Cone's Throw
This evening, at 7:29, The just-beginning-to-wane moon will rise, ivory-bright, Into a cloudless, scintillatingly chilly village sky, Within a pine cone's throw of my beloved cabin, And I'll be out on the end of its dock, Spending a reverential hour stargazing, if my flesh says yes, My bones don't say no so loudly I'll have to go indoors.
But even if my flesh doesn't say yes and my bones do say no, I'll stay put, sensing it's quite possible that, after tonight, For the rest of my peripatetic, poetic life, I might never again be a pine-cone's-throw close To pretending the moon and I are muse-mates Who tryst with each other, intimately, Every visit to Lake Nebagamon, Wisconsin, I make.
Having my last dinner at Lawn Beach Inn, Not just for September but, more likely, beyond knowing, I'm experiencing an uncharacteristic shivering, A despair, a sorrow I've never felt when here or anywhere, A fear of terra incognita not a pine cone's throw from tomorrow, Which will mark the start of my heart's next journey, To a new refuge, which could be warmer, could be colder.
09/25/10 - (4)
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