Archive
09/22/11 - (5)
Two A.M.
For a place that's often tumult, chaos, wind-din, Throughout each of the seasons, Dawn to noon to dusk to midnight, This lake space, named Nebagamon, Is inordinately serene, peaceable, becalmed, This forty-degree night of dark light, Close in winter's focus.
And here am I (or is it my spirit?), Meditating, on my dock, at two a.m., Tingling with September exhilaration, Over water so still, I can hear fish swishing through the stars, Three fathoms below the cosmos, Enticing November's ice into this lake's shape.
09/22/11 - (5)
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