Today’s poem is from 10:93.
Wasn’t it Robert Burns that said: “ The best laid plans of mice and men oft times go asunder?”
Well, changes - and more changes. Seems the cracks in the boiler drum are pretty bad and the chance of it failing are much greater with any prolonged shut-downs. So the great Gods in Memphis had decreed Springfield IP Mill can continue to run through February without any downtime, although we must do so at a greatly reduced speed. While this is good news, it comes with a personal price - I get a ton of overtime over the holidays as a result. So, tomorrow I begin 8 nights in a row. (There is a slim chance the last two days can go to someone else, but it’s not in stone yet.)
And on the weather front, winter - as in ice for three days, then snow - and more snow. It seems to be coming in waves - just as the crud on the streets begins to melt, it drops below freezing and another 2 inches of snow gets packed on top …. Haven’t seen weather quite like this in 10 years or so, as best as I can recall. Oh well, I guess the local “global warming” buffs will find something other than Mother Nature being unpredictable to blame it on. A few billion years of the solar system, and man thinks he’s got it figured out in a decade or two of studies? Oh well, the soap box is getting slippery and I need to get ready for night shift …. Boogie on, ya’all.
BEYOND THE MISTING RIVER
1
beyond the misting river
(the Pacific yawns & the Columbia is absorbed)
beyond the fallen timber
(houses for a farmer in Dubuque
shelves for books never to be read)
i stand: a shadow within a shadow
- sounds that echo & distort
- sounds changing until they are no longer sounds
but emotions
the voice you understand: so easy to reject
turn the switch
the light is extinguished
darkness, comfortable as an old sweater, caresses
i stand as if the dissipating mist
(the Pacific yawns & the Columbia is absorbed)
the wind down from the Aleutians’
carries the hard rains of November upon its torn wings
& you stand Eastern - umbrellaed -
waiting for miracles.
2
the Great Lakes cry: fog gathers upon your window
& you study the quandrum with nonchalance
epistles wait to be written
but there is no theology in shadows
worth celebration
- you remain a dream not knowing the source
soon snow:
flakes darting
& alive
bundled against the freeze
you will trudge
into the next stanza
