Something about water and trees together brings the history of a place to mind. Northern Wisconsin, lakes aplenty, was made by glaciers. The Indian peoples moved through and then came the French fur trappers (who would gather to trade and swap stories at “rendezvous.” Next the loggers and finally vacationers and those seeking silent reverie like me. Enjoy the second of six poems written at Marywood.
We have French names here.
The fur trappers loved these lakes
and streams stuffed with creatures
about their business of cultivating
We still rendezvous
inhaling that fresh water punge
the fish guts,
pine rubbed between fingers,
the stable oak
and sweet maple.
Here we drift
and listen to the eaglet
figuring out fledging
means feeding himself.
This is a young land
content as loon’s wail,
soft as early morning breezeless quiet,
peaceful as lake reflecting trees,
secret as bat in the blue glome.
Here the spirit can rest
and feast on a day of sameness,
same as the fur traders
dipping their paddle in the lake,
in repetitive motion
with a drip, drip, drip.