Four Hundred Fifty or So Paces
On this final morning of my five-day stay,
In this gorgeous North Woods land of my renascence,
I make one more trek, four hundred fifty or so paces,
From my cabin, on the town-side shore of the lake,
Down to the boys' camp, yet living in my past,
To commune with the shadows of my future.
Once inside the back gate,
I'm inundated by the dense scent of freshly greening trees,
Inviting me into their coverts, to stay forever, if I desire.
But I only have time, today, for an abbreviated circuit,
A cursory reading of nature's legendary epic,
To remind myself how tied I am to beauty and solitude.
Amidst all these empty cabins, paths, spaces,
I listen, intently, for whispers from resident spirits,
Who might be calling me to return to childhood.
Gradually, the silence transforms itself into one voice:
A ubiquitous symphony, on the air,
Being performed, by songbirds, for me alone.
Leaving these woods predisposes my soul to melancholy,
Yet we both know that my stay is necessarily evanescent.
Other designs are waiting to shape my destiny,
Among which are two flights I must take, before twilight,
Another pillow upon which to lay my head,
In a city apartment far from cabin and water.
Now, I've gathered my four hundred fifty or so paces,
Each a steppingstone I've placed in my pockets,
In case sleep beckons my dreams back to Lake Nebagamon.
05/21/09 - (3)