The body, when
it's fasting
becomes so aware.

On a New Year's Day in Reykjavik
I stood at the very top of that old city,
intending to visit the Cathedral there.

All at once, there it was. And it was in charge.

A gust of wind so strong that it grabbed and
  slid me, speeding across several metres of ice,
only to slam, face first, into the broad chest
of a resident British Embassy staffer.

Genially, he smiled down and introduced
himself with gentlemanly aplomb.
No wonder they had an empire. At least for a while.

Oh, that wind! Ever seen snow moving horizontally?
Or felt a hole being drilled, in one ear, almost out the other?

Deep in the ancient countryside, on the way to the sea,
is a lonely valley, held captive by the power of a brutal
Gigantic troll. There, this wind has its greatest rival.

Even if you can't see them, just tell me you don't feel them...

In Reykholt now, that bullying wind buffets a cozy house,
but to no avail, for angels watch over a newborn baby girl.

Her mother, just a girl when we first met,  
now sings tenderly to her own new daughter.
Both are princesses of this beautiful island country.

Finding kindness, that tough old wind has sent
Halldora's lullaby across the open ocean,
  over wide blue skies, and onto this snowy prairie
where I hear it and cradle it softly, and so gently, to my heart.

That day, something got into me.
Approaching the corner of 155th
and Broadway on the Upper West Side,
my friend and I were only a block from home.

Either we'd been on a mission for candy necklaces
or bubble gum cigars, from the place where the guy
was always grumpy, never actually scary,
and the sawdust on the floor, the real cigars
in fancy boxes, were something to wonder about.

Or we had just scored our first fresh sugar canes,
one each, and much taller than either of us.
The kindly Puerto Rican green grocer, proud
of his new shop, hoped we'd try the plantains
too, getting a kick out of our delight
in what he'd always known.

The light was red, and we weren't in a hurry.
I just got curious about this trap door on the side
of the old cast iron signal post,
and decided to see
if it would open... and it did.

Smiling to myself, an uncommon, delicious
sense of mischief lighting me up inside,
I calmly flipped a switch.

Instantly, all four lanes of traffic, heading north
and south on Broadway came to a screeching halt.

The feeling of power was intoxicating.
And unforgettable.

Had I been an older kid, had the policeman
who happened by been less lenient, had anyone, God forbid,
been injured, I could have been in some serious trouble.

Injury never entered my mind, and maybe the officer saw that.
All in all, I got away with the only really naughty thing
I did as a child, and still get to smile.
And remember.

Small bird, singing sweet bravery
into the grey, morning cold,

Could it be that the half moon heard you?

A yellow bowl of light
rose in the East in the first few
minutes of this bright new year,
and the morning star smiled down on her.

Could it be that the rising sun heard you too?

Wooly clouds parted again when dawn arrived,
rows of icicles transforming into sparkling chandeliers
in the first orange rays of this New Year's Day.

May we thank you, small bird, for showing us the way?

Within the heart
is a deep blue light -
a beckoning presence
and I listen, awake.

Silky clean hair shines
in momentary sunlight

Scent of sandalwood stirs
in the breathing air

Holy silence blesses
each perfect now