Between these dells that weave
Through the upper left of my body
I feel the dying light
Of a star once burning,
A strip once churning
Full of life and the future.
Alleys and fudge shops that
Bowled and fed
The engorged among us
But now they sit starving
Beneath the Big Sky that once shown a star
But now only plays the closing credits.
Peering out over the valley,
Near the Prairie of the Dog,
The kids pick crawfish crawling
At the bottom of the river.
One day they’ll get the itch
To pack their non-waterproof boots
And shiny rings
Headed for flashy lights
And “bigger” things.
Tomorrow, though,
They’ll pack beaten bags
In haste
Headed for the prairie
To pick on crawfish once again.
Sitting at the top of the world,
Lady Wisconsin at my side,
Dome beneath my feet
Pulling pictures from the pride:
Monona to my left,
And Mendota to my right,
The ants that go a-marchin
Down State past Orpheum lights.
The isthmus concentrates this greatness
To cast reflections in the sky
Of the near mile that sits below
Filled with busy badgers passing by.
Damn these beavers
Who made this place!
Excitedly eager
To build and replace
What was once glacier,
Plainly grass,
Rolling hills,
Rivers, bass,
Whitetail deer,
(And wolves to hunt them)
Now’s gorgeously flooded
With all of that and then some:
Neighbors, friends,
Strangers, and folks
That make up Dodge County
To what it is from what it was.
I’ve got heaven at my fingertip—
The tip of my thumb, specifically.
The trailhead to this heavenly place—
Of which I speak pontifically—
Begins at Potawatomi
Through Peninsula after the Ice Age
And ends at Newport Beach
Not on Washington (or so I say).
Few outside this place would know
That jagged rock keeps Heaven bound in
The frame of this county so paradise
Never leaves Wisconsin.
Holly hides amongst the pine trees,
The spruces, and the larches
That fill the forest in which she sits
Cross-legged in the middle of the city.
Nowhere near she’d find this peaceful
Meditation, breathing slow.
Surrounded by the forest
That will never let her go.
Even after leaving
Her meditated state
Holly’s hugged by the bark—
Stained with green and smokey gray.
Even plodding down the streets,
Passing by her childhood home,
She’s surrounded by the forest
That will never let her go.
In her room her comforts are plenty:
Lapping water from the Lake,
An orchid candle casting smells,
And Taylor vinyls swiftly play.
The door is locked but even here
She feels the grip of roots on the floor,
Surrounded by the forest
That will never let her go.
Up here we get lost.
For upon every crest of hill
We only see more crests
Waving across the county
Trying to escape,
But never fully leaving.
But I’m okay being lost here.
Roaming amongst the farmers,
The urbanites, and
Everyone in between
Under the pitched windows
Hovering overhead.
Springing daises stop me dead,
But the trumpets keep me cruising
Toward the sunflower
At the end,
Poking its head
Amongst its brothers.
He comes with me to greet the Chippewa
That rushes past my feet.
I find a bench to rest,
Watching life fly by below the surface.
The wind whips a petal from the sunny
Dragging it to the water
Where it will kiss the banks
Ad infinitum.
Here you’ll find no slickers
Only miners
With blackened face
Hurried to get to working
Pulling graphite from the clay
Working for the company
From which we pull our name
But up here we don’t find many
In Aurora or Long lake
Really only loggers
Or maybe miners
With blackened face.
At the bottom of the lake
You’ll find weeds and junk we
Toss and refuse to take stake;
Plants whose skunky,
Offending odor relates
The distorted world
The drunks see;
And the memories of late
Dreams abruptly
Abandoned in the lake.
But there you’ll also find my heart
In downtown Fondy,
At the farthest end of the lake.
This Is Just to Say 