House of Earl

 

To this place of Sycamore groves and peace 

where the Pottawatomie kept the fires

of the valley’s three brothers

nature owns no measure; keeps no time piece.

To these Great Lakes lands of plenty

where the Illiniwek lived in tribal unities

came the bearded and blued-eyed brothers

with structures and artifacts worth a copper penny.

To these McHenry woods of Pleasant Grove

came the family of Hass to build a home

that keeps the tools of craft and art

and the flute’s notes form from the upstairs’ alcove.

To this, House of Earl, built of wood

rises the ghosts of tribal lore

that laud the native and natural

ways to all that is sacred and good.

Distance of Time

 

Where once the trail and the distance

were of little concern;

whether the sultry summer burned

away at the youth of my day

the long runs never stopped

even when winter’s frigid hands dropped

all life into a silent whitened meadow

my breath never faltered; never wavered.

 

I could out run even time –

This virile elixir was my sublime.

 

Arriving now to an unfamiliar sense

What is to be learned?

That time ultimately won at the turn?

Where now I can barely find my way

to the next valley; to the next mountain top.

The meadow’s place is a vague twilight hop

of old stories with famed ghosts and false shadows;

of conquests and fails that now seem - a bitter flavor.

 

And, when once I could even out run time!

That was never true - however, it does remain my sublime.