This flood of longing
Is unlike all the upheavals
That I remember:
The scorching dust-devils of desire,
Despair’s armor of hard black ice.
Back then
I retreated,
Hid in my house,
Shuttered the windows.
Now, enchanted, oblivious to danger
I draw closer, closer
To the water’s edge.
How tenacious
Are the roots of memory!
Their grip endures
Long after the tree is gone.
In my dreams,
I still turn to you,
The way a blind woman
Turns her face towards the sun.
You were wrong.
There is no God
Outside of how we treat each other.
Lusting to carve your names
Onto eternity's tablets,
You darkened the sky with a symbol
Written in blood and in ashes.
Its meaning could not withstand
The flood of tears.
It was undone
By the first shuddering sob.
Manhattan. February. Tuesday
Driving rain, thick fog.
Skyscrapers have lost their heads.
New Yorkers press on.
A steady stream of umbrellas.
Some shelter couples.
A few are bobbing, jostled
By a laughing company of friends.
Most are held
By people walking alone,
Hurrying domes of silence.
The smoothness of the lake is marred by wrinkles
Of morning ice.
A single raspy cry dropped by a crow
Drifts slowly
Through the empty autumn air.
On this frozen day,
A squirrel quilting the snow
Gets the world going.
Splash! Circles spread out.
Was it a frog or a turtle?
Too late to look now!
Up! Down! Loop-the-loop!
A sparrow chases a moth.
Life dances with death.
The 7:54 train rumbles past the yoga studio.
Our supine bodies absorb the shaking of the floor.
The train of thought that had whisked
My attention way past the desired station
Of calm contemplation
Grinds to a halt in its customary tracks.
Distracted from my distraction,
Eyes still closed,
I take in the soundscape.
The Doppler effect makes
The clacking of the wheels
Higher, then lower,
As the racket recedes.
The rattle of the window panes settles.
The teacher’s calm voice
Emerges from the noise:
“This train has nothing to do with you,
You are not at the station,
You do not have a ticket,
Keep watching your breath.”
The engine of my inner locomotive
Clangs,
Ready to resume its relentless work,
To propel its tired passengers
Into the ever-receding distance.
