The snow has pretty much ended, and now, wind. All kinds of wind. Howling.
When you live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, you tend to be a little preoccupied with weather. Especially in the winter, your days are dictated by the weather. I know, at about 3:30 tomorrow morning, that I will wake up to the sound of snowplows screaming down my street, throwing a wall of snow into my driveway and yard.
That's January in the U. P.
If any of my disciples have been wondering about the results of the voting for the next Poet Laureate of the U. P., I received an e-mail last night. The gentleman who oversees the whole process informed me that an announcement will be made some time in February, once the publicity is in place.
So, until that time, Saint Marty will live in snow and wind. And poetry . . .
by: Tracy K. Smith
There will be no edges, but curves.
Clean lines pointing only forward.
History, with its hard spine & dog-eared
Corners, will be replaced with nuance,
Just like the dinosaurs gave way
To mounds and mounds of ice.
Women will still be women, but
The distinction will be empty. Sex,
Having outlived every threat, will gratify
Only the mind, which is where it will exist.
For kicks, we'll dance for ourselves
Before mirrors studded with golden bulbs.
The oldest among us will recognize that glow--
But the word sun will have been re-assigned
To a Standard Uranium Neutralizing device
Found in households and nursing homes.
And yes, we'll live to be much older, thanks
To popular consensus. Weightless, unhinged,
Eons from even our own moon, we'll drift
In the haze of space, which will be, once
And for all, scrutable and safe.