Every summer, it seems, I feel compelled to write a lament poem for the sad reality that I do not live within strolling distance from Lake Superior.
Through the Wardrobe
I don't live here.
Here I'm just a tourist.
I live somewhere else,
somewhere the morning emerges out of mist,
the air washed clean by crystal waves.
I live there,
crossing the blade edge between this world
and one yet discovered.
I walk in and out of time.
In my little house among the trees
life moves forward
green and warm like a cup of coffee.
But across the way, the hours dissolve into minutes
into seconds and milliseconds
mixed in with pebbles on the shoreline.
Sitting there I can almost taste eternity,
see the light just beyond the clouds,
feel its warmth, even as the chill wind stirs the waters.
God's Spirit moves over Lake Superior.
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