Direction

Fog-infected 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.