Winter Dreams of Travel

Along the street I walk slowly

And though some people know me

I don't stop to say hello.

Leaves collect at my feet

And sometimes I stop

To hear wind blow in from the invisible docks

right off the blacktop sea.

On firm ground

the air is gray and murky,

full of sounds widespread

of ships passing overhead.

Their cries, like creaking stairs, insistent,

between the shuffled silences sound intermittently

with the whales,

alongside whom all seasoned travelers pale.

Even in the briny deep

seasons change

and passage fares are steep

during the holiday exchange.

At the station for some interminable length of time

in a momentary lapse of focus, the wind will pick your pocket

if you don't watch it

and you'll lose your place in line.

As you watch your papers fly away

like early snow

you'll feel left behind,

outside of your own body and mind.

The sky is gray and seems ages away

and though the acorns rain down like thunder

you are still far under,

where the whales sing to those astray.

The whales on wind streams in the night

Call to the wildness of your heart

They sound like ship horns,

distant and forlorn;

calling on you to depart to find a winter light.