Ida
From South of the Göta River
where the lilac sky was punctuated
with scissor-shaped smoke plumes
from the factories in the distance.
From the old town where I found
a warm spot between the narrow houses
and stood there until I felt lighter of heart
and mood.
From the young mother on the slow train
somewhere between Sweden and Norway
breastfeeding and softly singing
to her son.
From the ferry port where I held
my worldly possessions; a piece of bread,
a pair of socks, a pocket full of coins,
a passport.
From the snow banks along the edge
of the tracks where I couldn’t tell
the difference between an elk
and a moose.
From the snow piled so high
and as far as the eye could see
that I couldn’t tell if it was water
or land beneath.
From the girl in the café window
that looked like a beautiful actress
and made me stop dead in my tracks
and feel ashamed.
From the train station with the camera
slung over my shoulder and my hat
over one eye like an ancient dream
of a Boston night.