January Poems #3: Cricket Hill

I'm not a morning person. Never have been. But on Sunday mornings when Dad wanted to go fishing, I pretended to be one. One of the places along Chicago,'s lakefront where he liked to spincast for perch was Montrose Harbor. That's where Cricket Hill is, giving a panoramic view of the harbor and much of the lakeshore. It's a nice place to sit and think, or to nap--especially if you're really not a morning person.

This morning the land
doesn’t force my breath
shallow with its green,
deep largeness or dull

glare. Mist grips close
to the weeds, the clover,
makes shapes out of
bridges, boats, runners

parting the spray, shifting
small mounds of cinder
squatting like Pennsylvanian
hills. The sparrows and bats

fighting for the sunrise
insects over Montrose Harbor,
over me, are soundless, one
body twisting and spinning

with the squareness of a
strange baptismal rite.
And the grass stabbing
through tight white
cotton and brushing
muscle, bone, stretching
skin, almost makes me
believe in permanence.