A PLACE CALLED HOME

There is a place that I call home,

It’s where the deer and black bear roam,

Where tall Birch trees reach to the sky

And northern lights are seen up high.

I, still, can hear the cold winds blow,

Across the lakes and see the snow,

And icicles, all giant size,

And snow, so deep, it reached my eyes.

Home of the Potawatomi,

Ottawa, Ojibwe and me.

A place in Hiawatha’s song

And where the accents, heard, are strong.

A home of lakes and fishing shacks;

Of deep hard woods and lumberjacks.

I miss the pasties sold up there

And miss the yearly local fair.

Of all these things, I miss the most,

My mama and her great pot-roast.

I miss her chicken cooked supreme

And rhubarb pies, complete with cream.

I miss her broken French accent

And years in Michigan I spent,

But in my dreams, I’m carried home,

Back where the deer and black bear roam

Read “The song of Hiawatha”,

See the home of Chippewa,

Experience the heavy snow

And listen to the cold wind blow.

Did you, by chance, see eagles fly,

See northern lights up in the sky,

Walk barefoot on the vast sand dunes,

Or listen to the song of loons?

Did your mind’s eye see waterfalls

Or see the making of snowballs,

Or hear the sap from Maples flow…

You will if you read Longfellow.