but I’m carving these words
out of my compacted mind.
I’m trying to mix the mud of my thoughts
into something more coherent
than to do lists and quiet
mornings with the windows all pushed up.
The trails this spring are closed.
“Come back tomorrow” the sign says,
but the tomorrows could stretch
forever and no one would ever know.
This is how I feel today:
torn open and shut down,
like I have one foot in my bedroom
and one on the other side of the Hudson.
I don’t remember the day I was born,
but I’ve been told it was full of light
that grows from a rainstorm.
The way it builds, golden,
like a patch in the sky,
and is swept away by its height.
It’s one of the things I think about
when it’s too nice to be inside.
This and my eyes. Have they always
been the color they are now?