When The Illusion Fails Poem by Ross Lakes

My front porch muse makes
Deep pools from puddles.

Living at the tip of the
Bay City’s edge is a
Windy proposition.
Sure, the sailing’s great,
But ice sails too, some springs.

Michigan’s topsoil breaks into
Slabs-twelve feet thick, eighty wide.
Blown inland at flower petal speed, it
Slices nicely, then shaves the shore of
Trees and houses, homes and histories.

I sit and swing and
Watch the cold, insistent blade
Approach,
Breath in,
Breath out,
And ignore the wind as best I can.