My world is a clouded land

Of swirling snow and stirred-up sand,

A plastic sky where here and there,

Lost in artificial snow globe air,

An imitation textbook storm

Draws my forests in its form,

Pulls my currents in its tide

And sleets them on the countryside;

Breezes light, my tack offhand,

My beaches on the sea's last stand,

On bays abandoned long ago

And islands lost in indigo,

Nothing brighter when I was growing

Than a darkened forest, snowing;

Trees my books and waves my rakes,

Nothing more secure than flakes;

To this day my purpose still

The slow toboggan down the hill,

Palm fronds weaving in the breeze,

The heat of morning on my knees:

The only part of any race

The ocean weather on my face

My life a balmy accident of fate

Buried in the water's weight;

My budding trunk no less believes

In autumn pigments in the leaves

Days of fire just as bright

By the ocean late at night,

The summer's dandelion sails

As true as winter's snow-blind gales:

My sight projected on the sky

And the planet likewise in my eye.