Jan/Feb 2017 Poetry |
© 2016 Elizabeth P. Glixman
Fog Along the Shore
I run along the lakefront path where heat
from the western prairie rushes out overthe cold, blue water and quickly retreats,
transformed into fog which wraps the shorein mist and disconnects the lip of the
city from the warm May afternoon. I'msuddenly lost in a mystical land
of shadow where past and present twist againsteach other like grappling twins and lost years
echo in the swirling pall of the coastas the ghost of my brother sprints ahead
and evaporates in flashes ofsunlight bright on impassive waves washing
relentlessly over the sandy beaches.I see my mother stroll with bare-armed, young
women who gossip as their toddlers raceinto view, laughing and happy, before they
fly off and vanish again. Old men jogout of the haze with my father, defiantly
attempting to outrace death, and fade backinto oblivion as I run along
the harbor and past the playing fields spreadout like gardens under the ancient elms
rising silently near the primevalwaters reeking of dead fish. Whitecaps slam
the rocks of the breakwater like crescendosannouncing my passing. The sun spotlights
me through the spray but I'm running blind,unable to see what's ahead or what I
left behind. My feet pound the gravel path butwith the old-time music in my earphones,
I can't hear the gulls float over myhead or the wind blow hot behind me.
Nor can I see those who have gone aheador wandered off to other lives and I
realize I can't reach my destinationwhich shimmers seductively in my
imagination, promising quietreconciliation and the celebration
of all we share. So lost in a maze ofconfusing trails that knot me with frustration
and despair, I turn a tight, slow semi-circle and head back to where I started
and my high-rise life, neatly furnishedwith the illusion of order and safety,
where the fog rarely rises to obscurethe view, and I can clearly see where I've
been, even if I can't tell where I'm going.