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Sunday Morning Reverie a tour de force I. Southeast: First Communion With the Tuning Bolt in her left nostril ‘Tori’ took ‘tall latte’ orders, a plump other waded through Emerson - her espresso’s steam rising as the chill air in-rushing with early risers hell-bent on a kick-start cup o’ Joe sends us lunging for our cups II. South Side Mount Olivet Lutheran Keillor’s Lutherans, churched, jogged, coffeed and hash-browned, contemplate shopping through an afternoon sans Vikings’ football: Oh my! These liberals. What madness next? III. Pausing in the Rose Gardens Now Northeasterly Snow, though never the Rose-ling icy under-footing crunch of boots refraining past this garden guiding Winter Solstice wending– Rooted in our midst – A blooming, a waiting. IV. Sad, But True: Northwest-ed. Aqua, those six in a row, facing East, garden-ward; behind them another six, all awaiting, all attention; Now, a red “In Use” lets me know: move on down the line. V. Morning’s Pointed Reply, Benched Symphony No. 1282 in F# Minor Allegro con brio awaken sleepers now snuggled deep in down, lost in forays sonorous - awareness sneaks in unseen, leans in upon your dreams - awake, arise, carpe diem. Adagio Snow falls slowly upon this old graying town, Settling upon silent lawns once green now brown, Brush dappling dingy canvas, accents white down, As though flocks of geese had just this way blown. Allegretto grazioso It’s so damn cold today Port-a-Potty odors Shiver deep down inside One dozen frozen stalls Near the northwestern shore Of Harriet’s ice sheet Allegro ma non troppo I saw them, but failed at first glance to recognize their uniqueness, oddness; this too, odd, for a collector of oddities, and though seen, what purpose could eight odd pickets, placed we must assume, by an industrious citizen, serve? to the north,’ that aqua dozen’ stand as sentries, guarding the northwestern corner of the lake – odd: a round lake has a corner – behind, the parkway lined with chilled hulks of steel & plastic: they too sit, waiting; to the south the rehab’d tiny train station with its ghosts huddled against the wind; but there, in the midst of a small copse of average urban vegetation stands an eight- picket fence. one wonders at its purpose, with height of two feet, its length of three, at most, what it thinks it can ‘fence in,’ or ‘out’, of where or what or of whom it may have in mind, or purpose, in its whiteness now against the dead browns, bronzes, golds and rusts of early winter here on the north- west corner standing silently ‘en guarde,’ against intruders making their way into the underbrush ‘neath the asphalt byway above. such an odd fence in such an odd corner of this oddly quiet metropolis: such an odd ode to us, on an odd day. the fence stands. that is a fence-ish thing: standing, and standing for, are fence issues. might this be a fence lost from the fences pack, picket-type, not chain, not slat, nor brick and mortar; a particular style of fence that was intended for us to witness, to more than see that this fence had an intention or a purpose? which one, I cannot tell, but someone knows. I wait. wait for word or sign that provides this critical information. then I’ll share it with you, dear friends, this secret, and we will have solved another great mystery: this device so positioned, so stationed – this beautifully crafted, oddly placed, freshly painted, perfect little eight-picket-fence, standing guard over our dangerous vegetation and the elusive little train station, the good Lutheran joggers, dejected Catholics – walking and all led around the round by happy canines whose steamy exhalations frame a blinding sunrise: all this oddness - on the northwest corner of round little Lake Harriet, on a bright, crisp December morn. all for a simple fence, who, as yet, is not well understood – but trusted as knowing why. |
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