Thursday, December 31, 2020

Minnesota; The Viking.

 



Lakes and hills, but mountains none.

Not mystery, but grouse and sun.

The limitless view of a sky undone.


Silos keep the land so prone

like conquerors now all alone.

My childhood was thus loosely sown.


I wondered at the silent trees.

The resonance of bumblebees.

But nothing brought me to my knees.


Until tornadic winds began

and to the cellar we all ran,

hiding under mom's caftan.


At last the thunder does not roll,

and, despite snapped 'lectric pole,

the wet green grass makes me feel whole.


So back to careless ways I dashed;

no distant peaks make me abashed.

A woodland Viking, rude mustached! 





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