Intersection of Road, Horizon, Heaven

I stand on the elevated El platform in crisp mornings

Always gazing south down Damen.

Skeletal branches bow tenderly over busy cars

Empty arms frozen in the memory of

carrying leaves

 

I stare intensely, hoping to see where the asphalt

Might curve up in an intersection of

road, horizon, heaven.

 

A breeze carries musty natural notes of rain

In pregnant clouds weighing above.

Under the drone of automobiles I strain to hear

Fluttering sounds of foliage that have not yet

begun to bud.

 

This is Chicago. Not Shangri-La.

There is a roughness here.

But even deeper still, there is a pulse I do not

fully understand

(please forgive my youth)

It binds everything that is coiled in this moment.

I blink.

Today in the distance, it seems I see the slightest

of curves in the road, upwards, and gentle.