coming home from a friend’s little cabin in the woods,
moon bigger than full,
low and wide over the road to Pepin,
no other cars in sight,
I felt the full sirens’ call,
I heard the Enchantress’ subtle song,
deer in the weeds off the shoulder,
just waiting to dive in front of my truck
and give their souls to God and Gods
and whatever fairies surrounded us.
Next full moon on the solstice is in 2094 they say.
I’ll be 146 then.
I won’t turn 146 til well over a month later.
I dream about it now.
The softness is compelling.
I have grown larger than the lake I live beside:
Once again, there are moths in my ears, dancing away in the light.
Once again , there are songs unraveling, right there at the beginning of the dream.
Solstice seems to be the exact height of silence.
It seems to have wandered off to Norway and a quiet home
where we all spent our early days.
I am a poet now.
I am a poetess.
One of my eyes moves to the side of my head, like a fish.
Turkey vultures sit on the jetty nearby,
staring at me, maybe 10 of them.
The breeze is clean and new,
and wanders in from over past Lake City.
I have not come this far to stop now.
Pain will not hold me back.
I refuse to disappear into the internet,
into wine and beer,
I refuse to take lightly my proximity to the passing world,
to the next world,
to the world we are waiting for.
The lilacs have bloomed and fallen back asleep.
My hammock sits empty in the yard.
For once, I will turn my chair around and face the street,
wave to allthat pass by,
delicately to myself,
about angels and dragonflies
and the short sweet smell of sunset.