Member Rara Avis
Recent chronicles, by itinerant and marginally clandestine travelers, have perhaps set Michigan in a slightly unfavorable light. Revamping an older poem, I though maybe I should set the record straight about our Great Lakes climate and the thrills of wilderness living.
|My road is sun baked dirt and stone,|
my yard a field of wild grass grown,
and at my furthest boundary,
tall rows of corn stand guard for me.
At dark the stars become a torch,
the brightest light from my back porch,
and fireflies mime the stars in flight;
I find I see much more at night.
My neighbors are the maple trees
and swooping wrens and bumble bees,
a snowshoe rabbit running wild,
a tawny doe with freckled child.
We share a home near glacier's gift
of arctic waters left adrift,
one lake of many lakes around
a place called Colon, my home town.
It rains a lot on summer days,
cold torrents masking morning haze,
as thunder rocks the window eaves,
and branches lift to find appease.
Clouds roll across the tear-stained sky
Like cinema, too fast to spy,
Wind-sped and dark, they come and go,
Receiving thanks from things that grow.
So, when the storm has fin'ly passed,
and water sparkles in the grass,
with rainbows lining freshened skies
ablaze with sunshine in disguise,
When creatures small and large peek out
from enclaves cast in Summer's doubt,
remember, this is Michigan -
the weather's bound to change again.