The trains are screaming today.
The alder has erupted into the delicate
green thousands of spring hope.
Its gash scar of the late winter
ice-storm glares death-like
amidst the unfurling.
I too want to believe in
rebirth in the comfortable
skin of recognizable form,
even knowing it is
riding the rails away
and, without looking back,
ending up again where you started.
The alder's first amputation
scar unfurls hope-like amidst the
death of green thousands.
Away is a way the trains are screaming.