Already, the sky today 

is made of someone else’s history     and falling behind.

And the traffic is terrible.

I have a dream of simply being

somewhere else. 

This might hurt a little,

life says. 

Did you hear the one about the prayer that fell in love

with a church ceiling?

I just want

to be home. Snow is kinder out my kitchen window.

It leans so close I can believe that it is whispering.

It brushes the glass    and says

baby, baby.