The snowy cab to the airport.
The takeoff in starlit dark
to land in a bright Manhattan
with redbuds in Central Park,
or at Dulles (that whizbang vision
six decades have rendered retro)
to step into humid breezes
and make my way to the Metro
in March or April or May,
some family obligation
bidding me south to Virginia,
its dogwoods in celebration,
its gardens of blowsy tulips,
tall alliums, little squills.
Or Nags Head, heady with roses
in swags and arches and spills.
Or Boston: the Public Garden,
the Charles aflap with its sails.
Or kite-lifting San Francisco—
Yet somehow the spirit quails
and the heart shrinks to remember:
I find it never forgives
those flights back to the snowstorms
and darknesses where it lives.