Northwoods

It is late spring and too warm by far for the

season, so that blue vapors settle in the

mystic Northwoods pines, bring to mind  

ancient gods and those who invented them.

The waters of the timeless lake unfold

from your skin, so that the fracture of

sudden sunlight as you emerge

drapes you in furious diamonds.

Water sculpts us and absorbs us,

christens and absolves us, but that may

not be enough; it is only water after all.

Vast clouds approach and the thunder

rolls out in a way that I have never heard:

As the storm nears there is a constant

insistent rumble. It goes on so for 30 minutes

without pause. The worst of the rain skirts us,

we learn later, still soaked in the memory of a

drenching downpour, its sound the

enlightened ohm that empties all thoughts.

At night, the loons defy language in their

absurd haunting calls, intone wood-deep

chants from which certain spells might be

cast when mixed with native ingredients.

I am an old witch,

haggard in her tumbled ways,

soaking sumac and drying herbs

against the backdrop of barking wolves.

There are more elements than we can count.

Earth, air, fire, and water are all

one and the same. This is the only secret.

c. 2012, by Martin A. Bartels (working draft)

Part of my new collection, "Unlanguage"