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| My Grandparent's Farm, Appalachian Mountains of NE Pennsylvania |
"Winter in Miami"
My grandmother only goes to funerals.
She will never see Florida
but she has the world
in her windows.
In the morning the river is fog
and the trees are lost.
Sunrise happens way up high.
It spills down the slopes,
and shines brighter than itself
in the imperfections of old glass.
There is shade all day until
the sun gets lost in the hills again
and the light come on.
Forever is train noises and headlights
in the dark and every star in the universe
shining out across the fields.
I have been to Florida over and over
until I lost count.
Black seaweed, white sand,
the ocean is always itself.
The whole of humanity sits on towels
to watch it
stretch out of sight.
I wasn't ever there for that.
I was there for the dark days
and the rain.
Days when the wild things
cry out across the everglades
and the black-winged birds
come pouring in from the North
to wage war
upon the backlot dumpsters.
Days when the ocean churns its garbage out
onto cold beaches
and the tourists leave Miami
looking for other
better places
where the weather is constant
and the sea
stands still.
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