45
by Ralph Murre
Forty-five degrees - the temperature,
forty-five degrees - the latitude,
southernmost edge of Up North.
Degrees of separation – impossible –
on our little island at the end of March.
At the end of a long, forced march,
desperate to hear a different drummer,
wet boots are thrown in corners;
thrown in, like towels at prize fights
that have gone bad.
Down for the count.
Down comforter airing on the line.
Putting it all on the line,
erring on the side of spring,
men push motorcycles through snow,
launch boats through ice.
How long the dark, they mumble,
and short the light.
Forty-five years - licensed to drive,
forty-five years - on the road,
earlymost edge of really Old Guy;
cousin to Kerouac,
brother of Tom Joad.
I’m glad, now, to be by the fire,
hearth and home finally grasped.
Soil of our own, and ours, these trees;
our snow, our ice, our mud.
Ours, too, the hope of summer;
and ours, the fears unspoke.
How warm the day, I mumble,
and cold the night.
"45" appeared previously in The Cliffs' Soundings. Ralph Murre is innkeeper over at the Arem Arvinson Log. He is an architect, mariner, poet, and dreamer who proudly wears the blue-and-gold jacket of the Former Farmers of America as he resides near the shore of Lake Michigan. He has recently begun to inflict his poetry upon the unsuspecting and has found acceptance in several little magazines. He anxiously awaits publication of his first book of poems, due out later this spring.
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