The river’s frozen over.
Bits wincing beneath Will’s feet
As he trudges toward the center
Of Kewaunee’s muddied deep.
He scrapes away the powdered snow
To reveal the contents buried
Beneath the window to the world
Where time is frozen nearly
As much as the ice that froze it there.
There’s garbage, but in it: beauty.
A wristwatch where the second hand
Doesn’t do its duty.
It’s stuck at five, the hour twelve,
And the minute mute at thirty.
Blessed here
In the middle
Of the river, Kewaunee.
This view from Grandad’s
Is grand as
I’ve ever seen.
Lights from campus
pass
and double back in a drunken stumble,
Humbled by their slurs and
ignorance to the world they’re just now seeing.
The flashing strobes from 3rd
Drag with them booming beats
Of dancing, yelling,
cheering
For everything that wasn’t left in the dorms.
The homes flicker,
Warmed by their fireplaces
Whose flames escape and meet us
Atop Grandad’s Bluff,
Sharing the care
And warmth
They had seen in their honest homes.
The black that is the River
is painted by the fish
Plotting to feed the city
And
The black that is the marshes
Is encumbered by groans
And snaps of crickets
And frogs
Calling for the light.
A broken plateau
Littered with the conflicts
Between nations
Lays hopelessly
In the South
Resting in the West
Envisioning a savior
That sweeps the dreams to streams.
A horseback Frenchman
Pulls them from the muck
Of the rivers once gilded
With the soils many riches.
Antigo
To the lake.
Dip your head below the water.
Find fish,
Pull back,
Find this,
Find that,
Just below the water.
Antigone
Is the sun
From the lakeside days
Now only drifting away
In the rearview mirror.
Antiwent
By the hours
That we never really taste
While we’re there
Sitting by the lake.
Liberating Northwoods
Form a near-perfect square
Of freedom
Enshrined by the namesake
Of this land
That is streaked
With people of the same ilk:
Warriors of liberty
And bastions of the Republic.
The smell of malts fills the air
That is reflected off the Michigan waves
Back to the shoreline
To our noses.
The first toes to sand are startled
By squawking seagulls overhead
Who are excited about the sweaty six-pack that’s pulled from my bag.
We’ve travelled far from the smokestacks
To this beach that is shadowed by the resting sun:
Through two rivers and
Miles of anticipation.
Our warming beers and
Our warming backs
Contrast the cool air
Attacking our faces
From the seeming abyss
That spans the horizon
Giving birth to a land
So distant, yet
So similar.
The next caps are pried off
As we both wonder
Whether across the abyss
Two lifelong friends
Are looking back at us.
Each step closed
The 26.2-mile gap
That separated me
From my home in Wausau.
This trek took its toll
As I’d seen nothing but trees
Towering over
All the beauty I saw:
Homes full of families
Living amongst the hills
Not fancy, not gaudy,
And not bourgeois.
No, the trek toured the hillside
Of homes warmed by wood stoves
That neighbored my mother’s
At my home in Wausau.
Just across a river—
Not too large
But still too far—
Lies another state.
The same as me
And yet,
So very much
An alien place
Full of yoopers and pasties,
And ‘Ganders (those nasty
Wolverines that bite and claw
When you tell them they talk funny
Kind of like us,
But we
Are sophisticated
Down here
South of the river
Where fires roar
But we endure,
Where we live free
From fields to shore,
Where we call home:
South of the river).
Who owns this land
But the people
To whom it was bestowed?
Who can take it from them
But themselves
Who want it forever
But dare not remember
That it’s most fragile?
At this pace
Grandsons and daughters
Won’t deal with the blood.
Rather they would
Pity those who do:
The ones who own the land.
Here you’ll find no Devastation
Only Wild Rice
Floating in the Waters
Once destined
To be inherited by a Great People
Led by Oshkosh in the West
And Ada in the East
Here we Reserve
This little Piece
Set out for Us
By Not Us
From all of Ours
To just this little Piece
Of Wild Rice
Floating in the Waters
This Is Just to Say 