IN THE KEWEENAW

Photo by S. Auberle

Lake polished stones

tumble from pockets,

words from pen, though

I can't seem to capture them

or hold onto that full moon

rising from behind the spire of St. Anne.

I've brought paints and brushes

fine papers to record my stay,

commit time and memories

to a permanence of sorts,

but how do you tell the story

of this warm August night.

the perfect sound of Pavarotti,

the cool, dark wind

rushing through tall windows?

How do I paint the blessing of bells

ringing through the sky?

How transcribe this loft

awash in morning light,

this sudden fog rolling in from the lake,

that afternoon of play in wild blueberries

beside shore-crashing waves?

Once there was an interlude

when all in the world of this poet

was holy, was right...

- mimi