Driving to the city
Heading East into the sun but
There is no sun today. I start out
Bathed slathered warmed drenched bedecked in yellow but
The city is on the edge of the ocean, last night’s storm has skittered with trailing clouds out to sea
Leaving blue behind and grey ahead, a frothy bank across my view
Of sleet and snow on the lam
Escaping from America from right here in my city,
Off to the Azores, by way of Newfoundland and Iceland and Greenland
And all other Lands I see on maps but
Do not see in fact. I am anchored
Like and to the land,
And can only wish to join the storm in its wild ride
To sea, to new Lands
That I only know by maps.
Next night it snows I will take off all my clothes
And step out into my small yard
And raise up my arms and close my eyes
And think (I need not yell, I think)
“Take me up, cold and frozen and encased in your ice
And show me what is beyond the city and make me free.”
I doubt the storm will do so. I am no fool
But then again, it’s worth a try.