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.