At the Bridge

When it opens, I hike the trail like everyone else.

Coney Island to Bailey’s Bay

sparkles like a winter day arriving after furious gales

surprising with its glorious skies

displaying blues from lapis to sapphire.

But as I reach the bridge and cross

near Fractious Street

it captures me

that sly attacker:

loss.

And suddenly each blue

is pale and leached

like ice stale in the fridge –

cold and bleached and fractured.

And yet again

that grasping shadow

steals my breath

kidnaps my thoughts

diverts my sense

and leaves me hollow.

Perhaps the mind can pilot where it will

and hijack what we know is fact

until, absconding with the unmoored heart, persuades

that bright is pale

that light is shade

that blue is grey

when the uninvited pain invades.