Sudden Calm at Maywood Shores

For seven days the wind has plowed the waves

in restless rows across the moving field

of Little Bay de Noc. While maples yield

their yellow leaves, my boundary red oak saves

its multitude of shamans' leather hands

until they twist and gesture in the wracking

air that turns the lake to earth, attacking

grass with wars of acorns across the lands

below the limbs.

These days of agitation

shake the universe beneath my hill

and make me fear this landscape never will

be calm again. And yet- my little nation

feels just now a sudden quilt of grace

uncanny in its drop from no known place.