Calling

The fog is very thick today
lubricating space like a cushion.
I can't speak in it.

Voices don't shake this air.
Doorbells don't ring. The telephone sits uselessly
with all its gay little red lights waiting.

My space is so contained,
freedom cold,
pathways marked in the snow.

I wish the winter were over
instead of just beginning.
I could wish my life away like that.

But in the Spring I could walk.
My vision could stretch out over the streets,
and I could hope for sound.