Fifty-three at daybreak,
the river meandering to its big cousin,
Michigami.
Time passes slowly, I say
as the last four years feel like
a cold decade of doubt, anger,
and lonesomeness.
In honor of the mighty Masquigon,
I start the morning with a cold shower,
baptized once again in glacial render,
the spark needed to wake purer,
more genuine.
Oh, how I love to beat the sun
and its harlequin pageantry.
Pink and blue and orange clouds
rising like once dormant volcanoes.
I’m drunk on the idea
I’ll be someone new tomorrow.
Evening Panoply 