I could literally go on for hours about the North Shore and why no human being could conceivably want to live (or die) anywhere else, but to save you time and sanity, I wrote a poem instead.
You’re welcome.
Grand Marais
It’s hard to feel like a tourist
in this tourist town.
This quirky jumble of souvenir shops
and theme restaurants
(and one grocery store)
couldn’t be less unfamiliar;
a cool breath of lake air
gives tired buildings life
and I feel
I may as well have lived here forever.
Learning to skim stones
smoothed by countless revolutions of the earth,
wearing my own trails through the woods;
shortcuts to my favorite trees.
Everyone here knows my name,
and whether I take sugar in my coffee,
and how much.
I know their names too,
just as I recall exactly which beach-stranded rocks
are best for seagull
and star gazing.
Just as I know exactly where to look for the sun
as it sinks below ever-rolling waves,
catching one last strand of light
between the branches of distant evergreens.
I find my heart on a shore
littered with colored pebbles
as numberless
and named
as the stars in the sky.
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