Archive
09/24/08 - (1)
Autumnal Moods
This Wednesday a.m., at my water's-edge cabin, The sky is so matchlessly golden And the lake so serenely one with its shoreline,
You might never guess the tempest that possessed it, All yesterday and throughout the loud night — Those intractable, cacophonous squalls of pure fury,
The swashbuckling rain, which started at five, Just as I began my hike through the boys' camp, And soaked my shoes, clothes, my flesh, to its bones,
That storm, which, by a sodden eight o'clock, When I hoped to barbecue fresh coho salmon, Had transformed into a Wagnerian opera
Of martial thunder and demonic lightning bolts Arcing across the dark heavens, like an apocalyptic army, Threatening my cabin, with instantaneous incineration.
You might never guess that this silent, cloudless, blue sky, This placid, sun-faceted lake, These trees, flaunting their coat-of-many-colors robes,
As though to disguise the beguilingly dying leaves — Those of oaks, maples, sumacs, and basswoods — Within their purview, their northern territorial keeping,
Endured such violent riot, just yesterday, Or that this calm, balmy, sunny Lake Nebagamon day Will, too soon, be lashed, ravaged, by winter's wrath.
09/24/08 - (1)
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