The soul rises from the south
searching for the sea
falls into the ice
burning, too late to turn
back, the days stay
long, the soul no
more may sleep
in its own heat
and stands still
at this very moment
9:14 am
on a Tuesday overcast
morning, the soul
invisible behind
its clouds
this year
the soul loiters
in no hurry
hesitates
hot and heavy
as if it just
ran a marathon
or swam in a surf session
there on the beach
under a prismatic
eye-catching umbrella
people from miles around
gather in its shade.
The Coming of the Toads 