In the Canadian Marsh

In the Canadian marsh, I wandered as a boy, searching for the something, for the somewhere, for the someone, I sensed was somewhere near.  There among the cattails, some swaying in the river breeze, some bearing the momentary weight of red wing blackbirds and bob-o-links, patiently watching with me.

The sky is golden grey, autumn-ed by the dust from the farmer's hayfields being mowed just in time to fill the barns and cattle stalls.  The smoke of distant fires, the burning of the last straw of harvest and the gathered leaves in their last moments in these countrified backyards.

Here near the spreading lilac trees, bushes of grand scale made so by the enduring of many years in this rugged, swarthy place.  One burst of purple color in the dress of of ten thousands little flowers, clustered as grapes upon the vine.  A place where a young lad, a lonely lad, a keep-much-time-to-himself lad, a lad comprised more of thoughts than of daring deeds, might come and dwell in his imaginary realms.  All my poems and thoughts of beauty that matured in later years were born within its shaded cloister, there in the creative loneliness, far from the confusion of the crowds.

The Canada Geese, they are on the move again, either coming from a place I have never seen, or going to a place i have never been.  But always they come home to me, a young lad, whose hermitge was here among the reeds and willow trees, in the mists of the Canadian marsh.

The End

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