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.