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
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
And ignore the wind as best I can.
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