I can’t stand this much open feeling, this joy.
All about me, the flat chill of winter,
and the white sky, and snow in the mind,
the geometries of trees without their leaves
and the last leaves packed down like dark sod.
Thoughts go out from here over great distances.
They cross long blue-black fields asleep for winter.
They hurry through small towns without traffic.
They travel roads that go straight for miles
but they do not reach the places of destruction.
Thoughts cannot live where the summer was barren,
where the great issues are food, shelter, living.
I leave my own house, cold and happy,
and walk alone from one end of town to the other.
The stores are taking in goods from distant factories.
Leave a Reply