Chicago Winter

The sky is gray; I cannot see the lake
Although it is but half a block from me.
In such conditions I could well mistake
The sky for some inverted soupy sea
Imagining I sailed upon my head
And gravity was only for the others;
But I must be too rational instead,
An instinct which with difficulty smothers
The odd exuberance the gray sky brings,
For every part of me unduly sings
To see the sky. I cannot answer why,
But when the world contracts itself like this
I simply want to stare at all that I
Can see, and give no thought to what I miss.