Breathing in, Minnesota

In early fall, in Minnesota, the rain falls, falls, In buckets, buckets and more buckets—: drops Likened to music from its many streams—land Of ten-thousand lakes; moistened gravel, gravel Everywhere…

Grandpa sits on the porch—daydreaming of, of Something, perhaps winter around the corner—; As the flies disappear, with the mosquitoes… Leaves will soon vanish, shadows will come early

Maybe he’s thinking about summer: miles and miles And miles and miles of cornfields; his childhood now Long gone, he hums a hymn, a song; looking at the Metal-piped fence, he made, with three poles, on the Embankment, leading up the steps to the porch; It’s worn-out like him.

The winds in Minnesota smell fresh, fresh from all The foliage, there’s a lot of it. The eighty-three Year old man looks about, on his screened in Porch —fetches his pipe, lights it up, sucks in a Drag, pushes out some smoke: it drifts and drifts In the corners of the house

“Ah!” he says—proud of his life events—I say to Myself (I’m but ten): “No doubt He’s already lived this?”

There are many stories he wants to tell, but first he Wants to smell the fresh air, the burning of autumn Leaves—He, never intended to have lived this long of A life, I believe, the old bear, came from Russia in 1916; He accepted life—adjusted to it

He hears the sparrows, their feathers flapping, faintly Soiled feathers, flapping, covering every inch of their Bodies— He notices frost on the nearby tree. It seems to Him, the sun is bouncing off of the ground, he gets bits And pieces of it on his face, it warms it, somehow, Thaws it out…

He’s breathing in, frail like,—like reading Faulkner, slowly Does it, a ting uneasy. He never left Minnesota once, once He arrived back home from WWI (1918), “…no need to,” he Says—he’s happy… The fields are clean, animals in the barns; in the city, People getting haircuts—everything shutting down. Winter is now—it came last night, a Minnesota winter Is like no other. He just woke up, his bones chilled. The Wind blows, now it whistles, no foliage to stop its echoes.

“There are only a few left like me,” he murmurs. The Flavor of winter he likes; warm biscuits, hot coffee, a Smoke from a pipe or cigar. Black branches that were Green a few months ago—: it’s 10-below zero.

He sees the beauty of Minnesota in a glance here and There—It makes his brain swim with life; it is nature at its Finest!...

For Kathy [#800 8/14/05]

You can see Dennis Siluk's many books at http://www.bn.com or http://www.amazon.com