In the deep dark winter

frozen, and full of ice

In the streets,

packed with snow

In the stores,

where families go

during the cold season

I won’t go.

I lay in bed, and hibernate

like a beast, that needs to be left alone

there will be

warm wistful days,

that finally set me free

like the Great Gatsby on the Golf Course

and me,

lighting his cigar

where city lights, blink

under a summer sunset

pink, green, and cloudy dreams

hundreds of days, before I go underground

again

to contemplate this question

“What do I want to do next summer?”

I’m reborn, in the warm light

with dreams, that won’t die

under a blue sky

possibilities…

and me,

an old man

looking at possibilities

floating by

Who am I?

The winds have blown me here, and there

I’ve rested on the deep blue lake

and seen the sky, reflected there

I’ve found the roots of ancient trees

and listened to their wisdom

I’ve been to city libraries

as a boy, checking-out

my first library card

pages, and patrons, and librarians

knowing me for 30 years

they’re still the same–with long careers

my career, is to walk through the city, that I know

and tell the stories

like falling leaves

Places

that have shaped my past

cruel and beautiful places

cast on the burn-pile of time

We

will all go-up in smoke

but not before I type

and listen to these lines

cut

cold paper

We have a destiny

it’s not money

it’s not the obvious path, where we should go

it’s the beautiful one

orange, yellow, and red

that we float across

and blow across

and ask the wind, “Please, set me down there.”

it’s the path we would like to walk down, even if it doesn’t go anywhere

it’s the books that rest

unopened

waiting to be read

it’s the girl, sitting

on a park bench

it’s the boy, climbing oak trees

it’s the city saying, “You found it.”

Mail carriers, sort and smile

street lights, blink

on and off

traffic, is the blood of the city

horns honking, but not too terribly loud

signaling, green lights, at the end of the pier

a yellow sun burning, 93 million miles away

a red rover, stopping you, in your tracks

licking your hands

watered green lawns, stretching-out in front of homes, like heaven

inflation, and foreign wars, and crumbling governments

don’t know the city

it is a poem

waiting to be written

a story

to be told

a past-time

spoken

It is my destiny

a lost city

found on a hill

inside my heart.