Archive
09/24/11 - (2)
Spirit Mist
At my searching, seeking, questing age of seventy, The epitome of epiphanies, On a clear-sky Saturday night, in northern Wisconsin, That's pressing, inexorably, toward September's edge, Is witnessing my spirit hover beyond the end of my dock, My bones naked to the still frigidity, As I cast my vision into the vast panoply of coruscating stars, The fibrous, entwining honeysuckle vine of the Milky Way, Connecting one extent of the welkin to its twin, While a distant dog barks at the unseen moon, And a train whistles between Hawthorne and Solon Springs . . .
All of this after a delicious dinner, at Lawn Beach Inn, Of baked whitefish and garlic cheese bread, And then a two-hundred-pace walk back to my cabin, Below which I now witness gossamer, diaphanous steam, Lifting off the heated surface of Lake Nebagamon, Being alchemized, by the brisk air, into mist, Shreds of clouds scudding just inches off the water — Apparitions racing into winter's rapacious embrace, Taking my uninitiated soul to that sacred place Where the lingering spirits of the Ojibwe congregate, To share their wisdom with my fate.
09/24/11 - (2)
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