I miss the things that are cold and rough.

Remember?

Pale ice on the sidewalks teaching you slow, steady, 

snow down as soon as you clear it away-

two paces and the frozen gravel is shrouded again.

You learn to measure each stroke,

careful not to strip 

the gravel drive.

not mud

not dripping

nor flat cement stretching

itself over all the earth in every direction, in every thought

slithering with trails of dank slush:

in its place

show me a field of corn stubble.

Show me a cow whose flared nostrils

leave a cloud of ashen smoke.

Or give me deep summer, even black Ohio muck,

I'm not afraid to sink

now.

Great-grandfather Ashley Reed in coveralls

and the hat Gran Olive knitted

starts creeping hitch-trudge, hitch-trudge

to the hen-house in his old, gray skin,

and I've already darted beneath the heavy boughs

of the old willow where he cuts our switches.

Not to hide,

no, Ashley's no old man winter,

his quick eyes move, younger than me,

to seek and wink. Eyes that have lost their color,

now so pale blue; you see

a stretch of snow in the evening,

an encroaching quiet.

"Expecting a storm, child,

come inside." An ancient sandpaper hand

encloses mine-

rough and cold. 

When the wheelchair ramp goes in,

I slide down it, but keep waiting

for Grandfather to be standing at the door

telling me how to improve, 

but he's inside with a flock of nurses

and I only know the chill,

deadly as she can be.

Now Memphis

is stone cold and statuesque,

dotted with Roman pillars

holding up churches. Holy places

reflecting homeless

vagabonds with apathetic eyes.

I see geese wheeling overhead

and am perplexed. Childhood left me

sure they flew down here, yet they move on.

You can call it solidarity,

but I swear their formation

was superior in an Ohio sky.