CALL ME BELOVED

already the poems are turning autobiographical,
but the thought makes me smile –
in later months, I’ll scan through vignettes,
a year in the life condensed into snapshots,
brief breaths of melancholy committed to words –
like when the blizzard snow turned icy and dirty
from the traffic, the world no longer looking
blank and inspiring but tarnished and worn,
that is the breath that overwhelmed me,
standing out on the sidewalk, listening
to the ducks out on the bay furiously
taking off out of the water,
beating their way
across the sky.