Nostalgia in a New York City Apartment
Our mountain spring is a rumbling spigot
crowned with burnished chromium;
and seeking for earth, the wriggling foot
meets carpet tuft and parquet floor.
The drama of heaven seeks its way
past dusty window, narrow court;
and all the snow we ever touch
is cinder-speckled, doomed to slush.
The rooster, a raucous memory,
crows alarm in the voice of a clock.
Cricket's pulse is a mechanized hum,
and pure air: bottled, or fantasy.
Both spring and winter show concrete.
Huge shadows obey the sun. Buildings,
aloof from nature, proudly try —
on up and up — for untouchable sky.