I need horizons

            fed by the gray scudding clouds of November,

                        where dreams are drawn from the feast of solitude and a

                                    racing sky spawns visions.

 Scouring winds brush the window

            and find an opening

                        where cooling draughts advance

                                    and purify a room gone sour with heat.

 The cracked pane sings a song from the ashen, relentless Zephyr,

            whistling and moaning as it enters.

Others of grander discernment,

            drawn by architects of history,

                        wander lost in stars, seeking what might be rather than what is,

                                    are deceived and deceive,

                                                grinding to dust those who stand in the way, who would rather watch

            the toothless smile of an old man,

            the gentle turn of a young girl’s ankle,

            the delight of a child at a father’s homecoming.

 The pathway between heaven and earth on this windswept morning

            is no starship boring through a celestial arena

                        where adulation waits at every turn,

                                    but a moment’s presence spoken briefly,

                                                 in this day, this hour, through the furrowed glass.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.