Thursday, November 29, 2012

Direction




Fog-infected the morning, cold
and damp as a fever-broken brow.
They were lost to me beyond the fog,
geese overhead, all noise
and no substance, like memories,
calling back and forth to each other.
Me, land-locked, with places to go
and no wings.  I gave them up long ago,
turned them in with my slighter dreams.
Every fall I wish them back.  
Gladly I would fly away, answer the call.
Happy to know where I was going.

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