Boomerang

We asked our sonorous ship to call out, to sing her silent aria so the notes would chase each other into the chasms of the lake, returning only when they’d found you hiding beneath three hundred sixty-five feet of shimmering viridian crepe.

The Pathway Home

[photo credit: Wikipedia Commons)

This river breeds a longing fathoms deep.
The morning sun reflects her silver glow.
She stumbles through the gummy pines, asleep:
Roscommon, Osceola, Newaygo.

I didn’t ask to join her on this trek,
but follow as she summons wrens to wing.
The trout adorn her gown, each silver fleck.
She lolls on leaves and calls the stones to sing.

Their chorus builds as we begin to dash
through verdant moments I cannot pay heed.
Mosquitoes sting and branches low do lash,
but stymie not my dinghy’s fleeting speed.

Each passing wave dilutes a thrumming ache.
Muskegon, take me home upon your wake.