Tunnel to Summer

Those who live in the southern climes may have difficulty imagining the long wait for the first signs of summer experienced by those who live in the great northern woods. Here at the top of Michigan, our years are dominated by the long death of winter and the sudden and violent emergence of summer. Spring is a state of mind here, for often it includes snow storms and very cold weather. Easter bonnets have ear-flaps in the Keweenaw...

Still, one watches and listens for the first sounds of summer. The warm breeze that sneaks around the corner of the house in the morning or the sounds of summer birds drowning out the faint knocking of that crazy woodpecker who winters in the woods out back -- these are signs that summer is tunneling its way through the remnants of winter's blessings.

Mick

Tunnel to Summer

I can't account for the hours spent,
Listening for the summer voice
Of the northern forest -
Bright morning hopes, dashed
By the chill whisper
Of winter's ghost.
Tree-limbs tap timorously,
Rhythmically in the frigid draft,
The bone-chilling breeze -
Carry the sepulchral sound,
Of dry bones clacking
In the twilight of cold morn.

The tunnel vision of my ears,
Denies the near-silent solemnity
Of spring denied,
And seeks the faint aural flame,
The aeriel harmonies and tones,
Only the beautiful beacon
Of summer's advent can sing.

At last, the torch of halcyon song,
The aery aria of summer sings,
And the warm melodies of golden light,
Touch the grey limbs -
Locked in the long death,
And sear them to violent life.
A tunnel to summer opens,
And the green glory springs aloft,
To paint the chromatic canopy,
In verdant tones of vibrant virescence.

I hear the golden corona,
I feel the fiery touch of light,
I see the song of the forest alive,
And I know the journey is complete.

Mick McKellar
June 2008

Alive

Spring and summer in the north woods brings a riot of life, long held dormant through the cold death of winter, to resurrect and recreate itself. Even the wind, the harbinger of rain, the stirrer of fog, and a tailor of all that is Earth, feels alive, but without the harsh edges and biting teeth of winter's touch.

Mick

Alive

The air itself is alive...
It thinks I need the company
Of tiny, flickering life candles,
Burning to get a piece of me.
It is nice to be needed,
But I had not planned to feed so many.

The air is alive, for it moves...
Its tender touch, a cool caress,
Strokes my brow,
And messes with my hair,
Puckish, it plucks my hat from my head,
And spins it into the dust.

The air is alive, for it sings...
A song that whispers of secrets -
Carried on the wings of thought.
Ethereal music, transparent, ghostly -
Dances on the edges of my ears,
Delicate, it teases my mind.

The air is alive, for it roars...
On the heights, it cascades,
A rapids churning through
A cataract of pines and firs;
A bellicose banshee, crying
As it scrapes the land.

The air is alive, for it pushes me...
It tugs at my jacket,
And presses me back on my journey.
I walk faster with its hand on my back,
And it has slapped my face
With a cold, wet hand,
And brought me to wakefulness.

The air itself is alive...
I know this for certain;
It visits within me,
Granting life to lifeblood,
Linking me to all it touches,
Tasting of all about me,
Bringing the scents of my world,
And taking me
To the ends of the Earth.

Mick McKellar
June 2008

Solstice

I have been writing poems about winter and cold and ice and snow for so long, I began wondering if I can still write about summer, sun, and warmth.

It has been difficult to shift my frame of reference from the long cold nights of winter to the long-lived light of our summer twilight hours. Perhaps it is because, somewhere along the way, I missed spring. I hardly noticed the passing of the Summer Solstice, I was so busy outdoors enjoying the warmth of the summer sun - finally arrived on the shores of our northern isle.

Mick


Solstice

I don't remember a summer this cold,
When afternoon sunshine still left a chill -
That penetrates bones, gone a little old
To deal with the cold by shear force of will.
Even the Keweenaw shivers at night,
Although the summer's short reign has begun.
For it remembers the blanket of white,
Which hid it from winter's unhelpful sun.
Yet, Heaven's heat-lamp will warm the green coast,
Touching the waters and baking the land;
Pleasing sun worshipers, who want to roast
Their flesh on beds of Superior sand -
Serenely spending, in langorous way,
The promise of this summer's longest day.

Mick McKellar
June 2008