Landscape I

A gaping desire,
an aimless need
for more.
This feeling of wanting something,
To transcend the mundane,
to turn eyes skyward.

Those youthful fantasies,
                 once I had fulfilled,
To drive to the edge of the horizon and further
                 To unknown places,
                        toward strange faces,
From which emerged the face of my love,
Like a beacon out amongst the crowd.

Sometimes I drive toward the mountains,
The ridge from which I once descended.
But I know what is over there:
Pebbles. Sand. Desert. Clay. 
        Grassland, then rolling hills.
                 Green, forests, cold, winter.
The origin of my birth.
I emerged like a crocus from the frost,
         Petals outstretched for the spring sun.
And I miss that steamy air.

How can I love what I have become,
Yet silently detest the landscape that has transformed me?
Urban. Concrete. Steel. Fire.
          Great migrations of humankind.
How has the tool for my ascension become my favorite scorn?
Driving me yet to further heights, in a rage?
Like a wildfire?

I suckle from the city's breast and she nourishes me with more passion
Until there are not enough hours in the day.
But this is barely living at all--
         I am drunk, addicted.
High on the self-servedness I abhor.

The quiet landscape and her spirits are what remind me of meaning.
It is difficult even to love in the midst of all this noise.