With the urgency of boreal fecundity
let us prick our souls and hasten the blooming summer
let us lap, and lap, and lap
insisting like westerly waves of Gitche Gumee
to make landfall, to make love all
enveloping and awash in soaking saturation
and then stop.
Freeze the frame and hold
in instinctive heroic futility
of resistance to the moving tectonics of time
the grinding, grabbing and whittling
the glacially irresistible power and motion
of forces so much larger than ourselves
hold and hold
for soon we will cry in our last voices like September cricketsfor a day just one more.