My front porch muse makes <br />Deep pools from puddles. <br /> <br />Living at the tip of the <br />Bay City’s edge is a <br />Windy proposition. <br />Sure, the sailing’s great, <br />But ice sails too, some springs. <br /> <br />Michigan’s topsoil breaks into <br />Slabs-twelve feet thick, eighty wide. <br />Blown inland at flower petal speed, it <br />Slices nicely, then shaves the shore of <br />Trees and houses, homes and histories. <br /> <br />I sit and swing and <br />Watch the cold, insistent blade <br />Approach, <br />Breath in, <br />Breath out, <br />And ignore the wind as best I can.<br /><br />Ross Lakes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-the-illusion-fails/
