Like a half-buried egg, or inverted spoon,
glacial ice changed the Wisconsin landscape,
sculpted the moraine below,
creating curvaceous landforms,
rising above the horizon,
waves of green and heather.
The Irish called them “littlest ridges.”
New love is like that too,
years of hardened, cold reserve
give way, release and flow,
softening the bermed base below,
which once was solid, now liquefies and heaves,
a tide of change, an exhalation
deep from its core.
We travel by highway from our homes,
past Lake Mills, traverse the Kettle Moraine.
You give me a geography lesson
as I drive, we talk, we share a day.
A summer festival of music ahead of us,
people-watching, storytelling, the unfolding
intimacy of friends or more.
LLL
07/18/17