The Art of Being Homesick

I missed the sight of snow.

Things were dark these days and it seemed like everyday was lived in Mudville,

that my skies were murky and dreadful,

that my insides were pasted together with wet charcoal,

that my feet were blackened by the long walks on an unfriendly road,

and midway through the night,

I looked for a new kind of constellation,

something that would make me believe in the power of the sunrise,

a flash,

even the slightest flash that would affirm the 24 hour itch

I missed a lot of things these days,

maybe even the line on the horizon,

maybe it was covered by dusk,

or the silhouette of all my reflections