My Cold Mountain
This morning shrouded in sea foam
A thousand miles from any ocean.
I am tired of smelling fish and salt air
Among my beloved pines.
I want to cut them down, burn their limbs
In my stove and put my graying head
Into the fire. “Reality isn’t created,”
Wrote Stonehouse centuries ago.
The pain will be lasting,
Finally burning away the childish
Dreams I still hold onto.
Umbriate Press Poetry 