THE GOOD

The thing about that summer

was the long walks in the isolated

back-ountry roads of Wisconsin.

The green tinged with blue…  

The pristine barns

decorated the countryside

and dairy herds colored the air.

Tinny rock and roll poured from the

transistor radio in my shirt pocket

painted my bones with permanent ink.

An old bridge crossed a deep stream

shaded by maples and oaks where

We lingered while brown trout

whoshed their tails between

dapples in the calm water,

waiting for another mayfly.

That’s what I remember

even more than the desire

you lit in my furnace and still

burns through the rest

of everything I ever did.

When I look around for

what it means, I still

hear the people there

speak to me, hear them cry,

watch them fall and rise again…

My people, who paint with words,

asnd effortless movement of dance,

who love from their skin to the

splitting of soul and spirit,

I want to return and stay

to the end.