BJZ Poems and Musings

Being from Upstate New York and accustomed to the natural beauty of that region, it took me a while to embrace Michigan and all its wonders. Of course with Detroit as the center of the automotive industry, Michiganders explore the state in their vehicles, and for good reason. The variety of landscapes, terra firma and aquatic, is remarkable, and the highways put many of them on display. This poem comes from driving about Michigan’s Lower Peninsula in all the seasons. Not to neglect the Upper Peninsula which has its own wonders, but we have put many more miles on the roads south of the Big Mac Bridge.

Motor State

I. Spring

motoring back on 94
about Paw Paw the rain started;
by Climax it was April intense,
slanted sheets of water on pavement
hands tight on the wheel
a little hydroplaning
fun at twenty, worrisome at sixty-seven

but I knew we were going 60
and the front was going 30
so we outran it by Chelsea;

back on the Ridge the bird feeders
were empty – I rapidly seeded them
as the storm caught up,
a good thunderous soak

then done, some sun, minutes later
three cardinals appeared at the feeders;
was it a religious message,
delivered to the wrong property?
or just hungry birds, pissed off
that we were gone eight days;
no matter – I found it somewhat ethereal,
and the grass is greening up,
the plum tree bountifully blooming

II. Summer – Rt 75

gotcha at 92 the trooper said;
I like to match the outdoor temp, I said;
so do you go 20 when it’s 20?
ha, this is my first ticket since 31!
the year, or your age, she said;
oh, you are funny, are you also kind?
only for those under 90 – mph –
could that be interpreted, I said,
as discrimination? she said,
you can call this your first senior citation,
Slow down and have a good day

III. Autumn – Rt 115

a mat of slick leaves on the pavement
after a night of brisk rain;
the too hot, too dry August and September
made the trees close shop early
and not display their most colorful palettes,
instead shrugging, shedding dry hum drum leaves

for every point of paucity
there is a point of plenty

the pumpkins (well-watered by their tenders)
loved the heat, became great orange globes,
robust, lusty, hard to resist on the roadside

in the rolling field a baby goat
sucks its Mama’s wattle
as she looks off through rectangular pupils,
lost in whatever goats ponder

IV. Winter – M 22

the briars bent, mummified by snow
the road gray, plowed, cold;
hemlock branches hang like doilies;
red oaks white, black walnuts layered
with ice, and in its solstice
the sun reflected off frigid planes,
glittering, gone, then glowing again;

Leelanau rests now, accepts our being;
a stop to see Good Harbor Bay,
long blocks of ice
where months ago we lay
on sand relishing the heat;
today we are alone as we can be,
chilled into a scene of serenity

Brian J. Zink 6/18/2026

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