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Array
(
[sid] => 157197
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Michigan
[time] => 2010-02-02 16:10:40
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => Shaped like a mitten and surrounded by blue She is a quilt with many layers The green of summer blushing with trees Riding boats on endless lakes The Anishnabe got it right In their native tongue Ojibwe When they named her Mishigama “Large water” or “large lake” The winter’s white forms like ice Frozen compasses held in place Carhartts, coffee, and hot chocolate Wrap the victims of a runaway cold Where snowmobiles tremble Skies slash through powder And cars ride in ditches To be pulled out in warmer weather The spring melts winter in a rainy thaw Colors of brown and yellow Unearth from the solid ground As nature returns to her wild side The deer, the bear, the flown away birds Give birth to the coming year Morels are picked as coats are unzipped And the world awakes to the coming morn Fall is the season of all seasons A painter’s pallet is always full The red, orange, and yellows Burn through the landscape like fire The harvest and hunt commence The acorns fall like rain as the birds take flight Ahead lies the cold grip of a coming change As fingers hold on dearly to a fast slipping day It is a land both young and old Writ on the bark of distant tribes Built upon the shoulders of assembly lines Midwestern all the way and blue collar to the bone It’s a place where Hockey Town skates Lions and Tigers sleep in their cages Ford motors run deep even with empty gas tanks And your hand can be a map when the way gets lost Lumberjacks created lumbering towns With cabins made of wood and fireplaces of stone In those kitchens venison cooks With pies, breads, and pasties Hands are calloused and shirts are flannel Fashionable for those who keep it simple Boredom plays out in a hand of Euchre A game known mostly to fellow Michiganders Two peninsulas together as one Connected by a vast suspension bridge Mackinaw stands like a smile between two lips You can see her glisten in gold When the sun cascades above the blue A shimmering rock skipped across her crest It is at these moments of impossible beauty That your place called home actually exists You might lose sight of her when age takes hold But you are bound to her like feathers to a bird In the distant shores of childhood’s spent You return to her with melancholy An itching in your heart; a quiet reminder Of a place where you were born And when people ask you where you’re from You smile, show them your right hand …..And point [comments] => 2 [counter] => 179 [topic] => 43 [informant] => zedwards [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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