Wrestling With Gray
Ribbon highways tempt with destinations,
bright electric exits without melancholy
brooding in the rear-view mirror.
I normally don’t look back,
mind rake my yesterdays
to garden good times, but
stuck in non-direction
even images of my overweight self
are sunlight on a monochrome Sunday.
Sitting at my table of wishes I watch
a cardinal through my window,
drink another cup of tea, and ponder
if a journey begins with a single step,
how do I reach Shambala by pacing quicksand?