Cedars at Big Island

Cedars grow
on the rocky shore
intent on
prying their
quiet but greedy
fingers between the layers
time has so solidly cemented.

Not as many
as you’d expect
since there’s not
sand for the millionaires
and the lake
on acting like
with weed and murky water and slime and fish.

But some cabins are there
for the hardy
for those wanting to escape the shiny plastic world.
And cedars are there to greet the occupants
who have remained friendly.
And willing to accept the old
with them new.

Curving both sharp
and sensuous
they climb through decks
and hide the detailing from the boaters
and the curious.
They fill up the space
languid in the brisk wind
expressing the time found
in each of hundreds of roots
guarding against
percolating light
percussive getaway expressions
people on a tear.

I feel so full
at Big Island
I don’t write
I don’t rest
I watch and watch and watch
until I sleep and listen to the
green jointed branches
telling pastimes of
sun and water and air
and ice
cracking new histories
open while they sleep.



About tgrignon

I came I saw I rented the DVD
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