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My breath is the only thing that moves,
takes form, floats above me, elegant,
while the naked trees stare back, staying
so still. The hushed wind can't seem to
hush my mind from going into overdrive:

the relative position of the sun, inaugurations
of men who're expected to fix the very holes
in the ozone, corruption and destruction,
dead zones and rolled over traffic cones,
iPod this and Banana Republic that; it's a
cog wheel of rotational informational
details I fail anyone could make out, understand
these tireless thoughts from spinning about.

Sighing nowadays seems appropriate and right,
but this cold air still has me languishing between
seemingly purposeful living and bittersweet
nostalgic fancies. What happens when a evergreen
looses it's green? What happens when I change
so much I forget who's really me? What happens
to the old me? What happens to the evergreen? Does
it pack up and go? Hitch a ride on the nearest

railcar heading West on the Pacific Rail?
California is lovely at any time of the year,
and the Winter with Pacific sea air filling my lungs
is a delightful departure from the norm.

Can I pack up and go?

Anywhere but here would be nice about now,
anywhere but here is paradise right now and I
said a silent prayer for the evergreen; science
told me the awful truth and my packing up and leaving
wasn't happening. Travel Agent said my funds were
too low and no hotel wanted me anyway.