Two For Tuesday on a Sunday

Minnesota

My map of Minnesota

Is folded and creased,

Narrow pencil lines follow

Northerly routes and roads.

Easing into St. Paul,

Sunday morning suns

Outline skyscrapers,

Trailer trucks, dirty air

And that muddy old river.

10,000 lakes are far away!

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Woodall Mountain.

Way down in Mississippi

Over by that muddy river

On top of the hill we snuggled.

Doubting the title ‘mountain.’

At 806 feet

Little Woodall,

Like a beacon called us.

Made six feet taller,

Our seat on Jeep roof,

Under the stars,

Nearer the ghosts of that war,

Than to the modern world,

Aims at a long love.

In the Mississippi night,

No one loves Woodall like I love you.