Grand Traverse

Four ribbons in flat symmetry

barren strips bespoil the tawny plain

A world still in color;

color different than before

Drawn north to the pole

Slicing through evergreen seas,

until melting into sylvan shadows

Beneath cottonball mosaic

on robin egg tapestry

the caravan proceeds

in sneering indifference

Shining yet empty smiles

of Mercedes grills

Cocoons on wheels and trailers laden

march to the sandy dunes,

where summers are fleeting

Rheumatoid claw sweeps the cold waters

Orchards sprout cool upon swollen knuckles

The hand that shelters the bay

Her coastal beacons blink

distress call to any who will come

Still only winter will answer