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patterns of ink

How fruitless to be ever thinking yet never embrace a thought... to have the power to believe and believe it's all for naught. I, too, have reckoned time and truth (content to wonder if not think) in metaphors and meaning and endless patterns of ink. Perhaps a few may find their way to the world where others live, sharing not just thoughts I've gathered but those I wish to give. Tom Kapanka

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Location: Lake Michigan Shoreline, Midwest, United States

By Grace, I'm a follower of Christ. By day, I'm a recently retired school administrator; by night (and always), I'm a husband and father (and now a grandfather); and by week's end, I sometimes find myself writing or reading in this space. Feel free to join in the dialogue.

Thursday, June 22, 2023

Sanctuary

[Written before dawn on High Lake near Traverse City, Michigan]
There are in northern Michigan more lakes than can be counted on a map.
Cupped hands that hold the overflow of secret springs or creeks and rivers 
stretching across the mitt like life-lines ‘cross an open palm
Once surrounded only by towering pine and mighty oak 
and intermittent lines of white-washed birch—
a vertical throng of reverence to the holy sky.
Once unseen but for eyes afoot in moccasins awake at break of day. . .
to worship in the still reflection of the dawn amid the praise 
of a distant woodpecker tapping time to the tune of thrush and robin 
and the coo of mourning doves whose song is sullied 
by the gibes of an incessant jay.  Each to his own . . .
as the red sphere peeks above the trees 
where just the night before a loon 
was sighing lonely salutations to the moon. 
(C)2013 Tom Kapanka


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