As a Michiana native who left her heart behind, I was suffering from severe Lake-deprivation. Always the Lake, yet it is so far from my dwelling place. (I hesitate to say “home,” because is not home where the heart is?) And here it was, the first day of spring. I could not ignore the Lake’s siren call.
It is a good three to four hour drive. But the Lake is not be resisted. Already the hour was late; where should we meet? St. Joseph seemed to be the quickest place of encounter, but upon arriving at last, I realized it was the dunes that were insistently whispering to me. Fortunately, twenty minutes or so brought me to Bridgman and the dunes of my youth. And all was well.
Some would find this place
bleak, drab, even desolate–
all sand and dead trees and those not yet wakened,
brown grasses of last year,
the cries of occasional crows. . .
But there is the Lake, singing softly,
just beyond the foredunes,
and the misty sun brings forth its diamonds
as the waves tease the shore,
The breeze, just enough for a pleasant chill.
I perch on the second line of dunes,
as permanent as sand gets,
delighting in the woodpecker’s raucous shrieks.
I had to come, to drive for hours,
just for these moments
I will hold within forever.
