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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