April 20, 2021
Geologists will call this place “Driftless”,
But it defies term, time, and space, Driftless.
A death below the ice hath no sting here,
Yet all around we find its trace: Driftless.
Knotted oak holding court upon the bluff,
Trout stream free of any millrace: Driftless.
Deep spirituality of nations
Carved into the soft sandstone face: Driftless.
Now, agricultural centers decline,
But we cultivate an art-based Driftless.
Here, we are living the examined life;
No better word for this pace than “Driftless.”
(Spring has arrived for good this time, we think,
But we’ll split more wood just in case, Driftless.)
The city dwellers drive quixotically
Westward in their Audis to chase Driftless.
Meanwhile, I’m knee-deep in the river.
With my whole being, I embrace Driftless.
Living here, I become one with all things.
I am not myself: I am Grace, Driftless.
©2021 Grace J. Vosen