there is comfort
when the loons return
to this superior lake
eerie night yodel
echoes
mournful wails
across the apostles
wake the ghosts
of scattered
shipwrecks
marked by
mooring
buoys
in july cold
dream wrapped
in flannel sheets
and quilts
we believe
they mate
for life
as they call
the names
of the lost
Waiting for the
Christmas
most days
it was always
like waiting
for Christmas
the anticipation
of opening presents
leave it to beaver style
was superseded
by peaking out
the curtain waiting
for headlights coming
down the street
that came
too late
too drunk
too many times
with the unsaid
promise
that things
would be different
next year
when the world
sobered up
under
the star
of Bethlehem
