Archive
09/21/11 - (3)
The Triangle
It seems that this rain, beating persistently, if gently, Against my cabin's shingles and window screens, Is the gatekeeper for my daydreams.
For at least the past three hypnotizing hours, I've been losing myself, in retracing every step of my traipse, The one I initiated Monday, after arriving in Lake Nebagamon.
Just this drizzling now, my reveries are in the Axeman Village, Staring into the spaces where A-4 and A-5 were located When I'd just turned thirteen, that April, before the '54 season.
Indeed, I'm still that awkward, athletically competitive camper, Ready, any second, to grab racquet, catcher's mitt, Race off to the tennis courts, diamonds, for a match, a game.
I blink thrice, first returning from the fifties, then from Monday, Now back to this warm cabin's reiterating pitter-pattering, This lazy afternoon of my eighth decade — plenty of boy left in me;
I know this because I hear the triangle I rang, two days ago, Which yet resonates its calls to wake-up, rec-hall meals, Projects, rest periods, Special Interest nights, lights out,
Still feel, in my shorter breaths, my slower-flowing blood, The spirit of that boy poised to let his energies direct his destiny, Eager to seize each new opportunity, lose himself to the moment.
09/21/11 - (3)
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