Dreams

1.

I find I need new self-expression,
having moved away
from the dances of childhood and voice,
that piping voice
fit for skipping and for skating flat stones.

Ghosts like white fog rule the Potomac.
The hoary sun,
white in fog as the moon in broad daylight,
summons hoar frost spun
on early morning machines.

And can I fly?

I dreamed that in C'ville an eagle
strode around in wind,
fairly bobbed
with its need to be human.

2.

Driving along in a snow storm,
the right lane clear,
I am boxed on the left by dark traffic.

I plow white drifts
that move right to left on the road.
The risk is high,
but I believe in the outcome.

I grip the wheel,
lift my right foot off the pedal.
Black tires slow.

I have time.  
There is still conversation.
I have other lives.