On Parole

It is a cold and harsh place
the far city
that I approach in the morning
away from the slant of
evening sun the roll of
cloud and the hues of the
distant mountain -
the frosted wind on my
face blew my hair
back as my heart
was freed and my
soul danced on the
grass in the wide winter air

but I must voluntarily
bend into my cage
again tomorrow
and myself fasten
the iron clasps
I must live within
the regulated distance
of my days, my
mind only, having the
freedom to raise its memory
high, a banner to the soul
waving the light
of another hope
into my darkness.

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