Jack Bedell, Louisiana's new poet Laureate. 


On the Pass at Manchac

a camp has toppled from its pilings.

Its porch frowns down into the lake.

My son studies weather patterns

for class. His book claims

the wind circulating around us

is the same wind that stirred the sand

around Giza while men were building

pyramids, that swayed the lilies

of the valley and filled sails toward Vinland.

I imagine God sighing into clay

to give it life. Years later that breath

swirls into a storm off Africa,

dances for weeks across the Atlantic

into the Gulf and onto our shore

to nudge a camp off its perch

on the Point, the one place

my mother loved on her drive

back home, always rolling her window down

to feel a breeze in her hair.