Written May 22, 2020
We were out on Lake Erie all day yesterday fishing and playing and breathing in the air, which even a 1000 meters from shore was thick with the sweet scent of blossoms.
The Passing of Ghosts
I can’t remember the last time
the savage thaw fell out of my mouth
and little white hot balls of Sol
bled from my freezing fingertips
the cold muttering of Winter undone,
always much more than the carving
left behind by the dirty melt,
sleety runoff and exacting ghosts
with more stamina than I.
Spring needs immense energy having
suffered from such cold neglect,
having forgotten it’s sturdiness
that Winter often lacks
scentless and remote, it strides
heedlessly past my hibernating
specters begging for release.
In Winter dying is the only way out
and every departure is layered
in self knowledge and will
reducing me to essential elements.
I hold these spirits, gaze into their eyes,
abandon perspective, intoxicated and
heady from blossom scent
1000 meters off shore
an unseen thing bounding
across my lake. My arms held high
eyes closed to the murmuring
of Winter borne, in this way I am
able to feel the passing of ghosts.
Spring is a supremely jealous thing.
Pic is Starve Island, Lake Erie. It’s locally known as Death Reef since it will kill your boat dead if you happen upon it during a moment of inattention or if you forget to inquire about local charts