Fanciful

Small winter poem 2 | Escape

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Someone tell me the nearest
place where the sun shines
so I can drive there,
pull a folded camping chair from my trunk
and sit
.
.
.
with my face
.
.
.
to the sun
.
.
.
until my skin
burns and peels and
my veins know vitamin D
in them once more.

And the sunlight can pull
the knots from my shoulders
and the shadows and cobwebs from my mind
and I will drive home again–
recharged like a battery
from the very memory.

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